


it takes time and a little death

by closet_monster



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Depression, Disturbing Themes, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Heavy Angst, Not Canon Compliant, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: Caught in the eye of a vicious storm, Nesta begins to realize that it should be harmless, given she's a female of rain, wind, nebula and thunder.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 91
Kudos: 173





	1. For Her

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I'm tired, sad and miserable, please have mercy on me. I also wanted to exercise and focus on something, so for whatever reason this came out.  
> It's an acofas rewrite where Nesta doesn't go to shit; instead of drinking and fucking, she stays in bed for months and is pretty miserable until she forces herself out of it.
> 
> WARNING: In this headcanon, the sexual abuse Nesta suffers from Tomas Mandray goes through and through, so it might not be ideal for you to go on if you have triggers with such things or is a little more sensitive.  
> For now, my head is empty and I don't know what else to say. Please give me love and attention and I really hope you all like this because I've really been working on it.
> 
> Ps. it will probably be 6 chapters long, but I'm not sure yet. Also english is not my first language so forgive me for all.

Nesta could have lived that down with ease - after all, choking trauma and marching through it's corpse was something kin of a talent of hers. Boxing memories and shoving them so deep down in the back of her consciousness, she sometimes had trouble remembering if things had happened at all.

It had been years, anyway. The last time she had seen Tomas, Nesta was not only twenty one, but all the way across the damned continent. At the time, she was a helpless little thing fueled by nothing other than spite and desperation, sadness echoing within the hollow vastness of her insides.

It hadn't been  _ that _ long, but for someone like her, it was. Because in three more years she had endured so much worse, Tomas Mandray's filthy hands were now hardly anything other than a bitter joke. The memory no longer reached her mind - from a beautiful afternoon of orange skies and blueish grass, when the woodcutter's last son had dragged her into the small bedroom he shared with his brothers and pushed her into the floor. 

These were usually drowned by the cold, by the blackest waters that consumed her whole. By strangers that dragged her helpless little form from bed, through the gore made off their murdered hounds, guards and housekeepers. Drowned by snarling queens and proud kings who sometimes shook under her stare. Drowned by the tip of her curved finger as she pointed and pointed and pointed; the curved finger that was always shaped like a sharp talon in her nightmares. Tomas' filthy hands were drowned by Cassian's, bloodied, as he helplessly reached up - but never quite found her. Never quite saved her. They were drowned by the blackest waters she never quite stopped drowning in, where she had walked in war fields, unsteady hands reaching for dying warriors who would go down nameless, by the emptiness left in her chest the second she turned a legion of warriors into a mist of dust.

And nothing else was a memory. Everything before and after was but a distant impression, hardly sticking around for longer than 15 sharp seconds. Where Nesta once was a vast immensity of feelings, where her memories were once color coded and neatly organized by alphabetical order, she now was a hollow bark with shadow ridden corners.

No coherent thoughts lingered within her mind; there were only rushed words, running through one another so fast that they couldn't possibly mean anything. And though her mind was barely functioning, Nesta could hardly get any rest. Dealing with the chaotic savagery of her thoughts was exhaustive and absolutely nothing helped ease the pressure on the center of her forehead - most definitely  _ not _ sleep.

She couldn't.

It was hard to lie down; it was hard to close her eyes, to make her heart slow down, to stop the thoughts banging against each other restlessly. And when against all odds she  _ did _ fall asleep, her slumber was taken by cold nightmares where no edge of her body could find the floor; as she bucked and struggled in familiar black waters, as she eventually gave up and drowned. Though sometimes, they diverged: sometimes, Nesta had nightmares where the door was somehow broken, and she helplessly fought to hold it in place as a looming feeling that something was coming took over. A few times, that something were human mercenaries, coming for their father in the beautiful house they were yet to lose; or Tamlin, either in high fae or beast form, and she could not yet tell which one was more terrifying. Sometimes it was Hybern, in nightmares so similar to reality, she sometimes wondered if they were just memories.

Every day, Nesta Archeron opened her eyes ready for a fight.

Way too many times strangers had broken inside her home, leaving wrecked doors wide open and destruction on their path. Way too many times she had fought inside bedrooms, kicking beds and covers, clawing at the floor and pushing violent hands who kept reaching for her body, despite the most blood chilling cries it could let out.

She never left her bedroom.

Elain, who did better than her every day, came by quite frequently. Feyre, also, but in slightly longer breaks - not that it really mattered, since she would not speak to either. Sometimes, she couldn't even tell if they were actually there. Her tongue could form no words, grey eyes hardly moved from the clouded, glassy way they stared into empty corners. Cassian had come twice, but he never stayed for longer than a minute - it was painful to endure and he wasn't sure of what to do with the horrifying feeling of despair that came with watching her fade. 

He had called her name. Twice; once for every time he had visited. On the first time, it was all he had said.

_ "Nesta?" _

It was the most she had felt since the war.

Still, not enough to awake.

The second time, he had said her name again. Stepped closer, sat on the bed. Nesta found she couldn't move. Or breathe. Cassian said her name, called her "sweetheart" with that hopeless tone of his. Sized down her sick form with those lost hazel eyes of his. Nesta could not move. He left.

Time goes by incredibly fast, she finds.

One day, she's blood and mud in a corpse filled yard; the king's head in her hands and her lover dies on the ground. The other day, it's winter solstice and she hears beautiful, joyful laughter from the streets and every corner of her sister's house. She's a sorrowful ghost who's yet to die, hopes long decimated.

It was surreal how quickly things changed; how many cycles the rest of the world had managed to complete while she still shamefully struggled to even finish  _ that _ one.

Some days had been slightly easier, for whatever reason. Some days, she could sit in the armchair for hours with a new book; some days she could sit, but couldn't manage to read any words. Some days, she dressed up, did her hair, sat by the window; sometimes she watched the streets, sometimes she couldn't actually see anything at all. And some days;  _ most days, _ she didn't bother to leave the bed. To eat. Once every day, Nuala or Cerridwen came by to take away plates filled with food that Nesta either didn't eat or couldn't manage to get through.

Not a single finished meal. Not one, for months.

_ "A breathing corpse", _ it's what they called her.

Nesta took absolutely no offense. In fact, she agreed with them - and despising herself had always been quite easy.

It takes some forced impulse to revive some memories.

As the very first snowflake of winter hits the panes of glass from her windows, Nesta's eyes trained on the way it's beautiful geometrical form melted into nothing, Cassian barges inside her bedroom without a single warning. From the way his rushed momentum seemed to break, she assumed his head was elsewhere - the way his eyes stared wide open, as if surprised with his own doing, was a spare clue. And he stared. Shocked, then disappointed, then miserable.

Nesta felt things: before the male whose life she had laid hers for, they became harder than ever. Still, she couldn't exactly identify what they were. Her mind was lost; lost, lost. All Nesta could understand was this:  _ Cassian. Here. Why? _

As a pitch black storm of confusion rained down in the background, threatening to swallow down the new curt words her mind had managed to take in.

_ "Nesta." _

There. The third time.

_ "Sweetheart." _

The third time her heart jumped. The third time she felt somewhat alive - in a very long time, at least.

Nesta tries; she really tries. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there's a woman of fire and tempest, an unforgiving goddess balancing the apocalypse within the limits of her body, who bangs into the nothing furiously and begs to be let out. Nesta watches the world as if she's not really there; as if her body is a cage and her consciousness is locked somewhere deep inside - if she were to guess, in the eye of that storm, buried under the destruction it had made of her once beautiful mind.

And she struggles harder than ever when he comes around; she tries harder to come out. Pushing desperately but never quite succeeding. Nesta took it with an immense amount of shame as she was never strong enough to conquer such simple task.  _ Reacting. _

She can feel his eyes, hopeless, taking her in.

Nesta knows she looks a little more dead with every passing hour - for Cassian, who had only seen her three times in months, she might have been the crude straight sight of a living nightmare.

It's shameful.

"I brought a book." Cassian speaks, voice breaking all the way, and it sounds nothing like him. It barely sounds like a sentence, but the uncharacteristically light words are understandable enough and Nesta almost shakes with the unknown feeling of victory as she manages to move her eyes to his hands.

Cassian does, too.

"It's a weird story," he breathes out, letting his body walk closer to where she lays in the bed, bones hugged by a miserably thin nightgown that looks as frail as her skin, "they're all dead, the characters. And it all happens in hell."

It does catch her attention. Nesta couldn't see herself picking this book on her own, but now that Cassian did, it does sound like a somewhat interesting story.

He sits on the bed, the entire mattress shifting under his weight, and holds up the book so that she can see the cover - the title makes her laugh. Or as much of a laugh as she could manage these days: a light snort so inaudible, she doubted he had heard it at all. He had. Cassian's eyes and ears were trained on her, on every single imperceptible change, even on the way her blood rushed through her veins. He watched so carefully, it was a wonder he couldn't hear her thoughts as well.

Somehow, Nesta finds herself wishing he could. That he could get inside and see what had happened to her, since she couldn't find any words to say it herself. Some explanation; Nesta wishes it didn't seem like she had abandoned him completely, or given up.

But she laughs, that miserable and pitiful little thing, and Cassian beams like he had just witnessed the most beautiful thing in the world.

He reads the synopsis for her, looking back and forth in between the book in his hands and her eyes, trying to make sure that she's still paying attention. No one could tell for sure how deep inside her mind Nesta really was; how awake, how conscious, how alive. In the days Feyre or Elain got inside her bedroom to see her quietly by the window, curled up in a chair with a new book, they could have sworn that she was as good as new. But then, in the following day, they would find her back in bed, barely awake despite the open eyes, and all hope was once again lost.

Besides the Archerons, who were so incredibly young and inexperienced, no one else was that surprised. They all had seen that hopelessness manifest in the past, knew that it either led to tragedy or some miraculous form of revival. The clock was ticking. Soon enough, they would be able to tell if Nesta was broken beyond repair or edging a cliff of untamed salvation.

She didn't feel particularly inclined towards anything positive, for that matter.

Cassian sets the book by the nightstand, after he's done ranting about the story and how he had wanted her to read it as well. Nesta watches, mesmerized, eyes trying to follow his movements with content, dim amusement.

It was the most.

She knows; and he does, as well. Cassian thinks about the other times, months ago, and how he left so quickly every time. Cassian wonders if maybe, back then, if he had stayed a little longer and talked a little more, pushed a little more, instead of giving up to give her time and space; if she should have reacted sooner. Months passed and as he brushes the opaque dry hair off her temple, her eyes closed and face calm in quiet content - Cassian hates himself because maybe, they could have done this sooner.

He eventually leaves.

Nesta is falling asleep. If she was hardly awake with eyes open, her sleeping form shouldn't be much more productive; but he doesn't know. Cassian has no idea of how exhausted she is and how little sleep she actually gets. He doesn't know how much of a victory it was to fall, stay, and then wake up in peace, well rested. He has no idea that her falling asleep was better than the miserable laugh the book had wrangled out of her, and how Nesta smiles brightly when she finally wakes up.

The following day is a good day. 

Nesta decides to leave the bed while the lightning lasts. Her mind spins in the lightness of her body, continuously sick, and she notes that there is snow lightly packed on the edges of her windows. She looks, because the last time she had done it, something good had happened, and she could use a little more of that.

Nesta comes closer, hands outstretched to brace herself for a potential fall, until she successfully stood by, before the city of starlight - and a little portion of her sister's garden. Neither Feyre or Elain in sight; instead, there were two bats facing each other near the gates. None of them were hers, she noted quite quickly: hair too short, for starters. In comparison to Cassian, Rhysand was too skinny, Azriel not tall enough. Their wings, so similar and yet so strikingly different, were another telling sign. Rhysand's were darker and spotted; while Feyre saw an endless sky of immortal constellations, Nesta saw freckles in a lanky teenager. Azriel's wings were of the darkest blue, standing taller over his shoulders than his brothers, patagium thick and imposing. Cassian, however, had the longest and sharpest talons, like daggers of bone jutting out of his membrane. It had defying angles, stretched the farthest, was scarred all over and sometimes, depending on the way he stood under the light, they shone red.

The two bats standing by the gates weren't hers, but they stared - and seeing the way they both stood uneasy, frozen, pale faced, Nesta managed to smile.

She wasn't quite sure why.

Nesta never liked the unruly High Lord of the Night Court, arrogant and entitled, and she knew for a fact that you normally wouldn't smile to someone you didn't like. But she did, maybe because the smile wasn't about him at all, and she was looking forward to whatever story awaited her in Cassian's strange book.

And then she didn't.

Nesta dressed up in a comfortable green dress, braided her hair, drank a cup of tea and sat in her armchair. With the book in hands, her now bony fingers traveled over the hard grey cover, the silvery letters of the title, the yellow stack of pages and curiously checked - the book was 463 pages long. It was very well kept, but not exactly new. This book was Cassian's, or at least he had read it before her. In fact, other than the smell of paper, alcohol and dust, the book also smelled a little like him. Wood, rain and smoke. A faint, almost imperceptible thing that did not go unnoticed.

She opened the book with a quickly beating heart and then, as she started on the first couple of lines, Nesta learned that she couldn't get through a single sentence without her mind drifting away.

So there the book lay, untouched on her lap, as she watched the snow coating the edges of her windows for the rest of the day.

It was one of those where she didn't eat a thing. And there, minute after minute, repeatedly going over her failure to simply read, Nesta folded within herself again.

Through three days, Nesta kept the book on her bed. She had her eyes on it at all times, as if to force herself to push up and eventually read - and through three days, it sparks nothing besides sadness and shame inside her. Because Nesta really wants it: Cassian was strangely passionate about it and she wants to have it finished by the time he comes back and, by all means, when would that even be? In another month? Would Nesta have a month to try before he came by again?

Unless, of course, he didn't.

He could always stop. Leave for good. Give up. She had resigned to that already. With everyday that passed and he never came or sent word, Nesta took it as a plain confirmation that whatever had happened was gone. In the months leading up to winter, on every day that weren't those scarce three in which he had shown up, Nesta told herself that he was gone entirely.

She was the breathing corpse, after all. Whenever Cassian came, he was the strong general commander, beautiful and imposing, unquestionable, unbreakable. Cassian looked like not a day had passed from the first time she had seen him - Nesta, on the other hand, was a bag of bones who didn't eat, speak and hardly even moved. She hadn't been under the sun in months. Nesta never looked into mirrors anymore, not even when she rarely braided her hair; and still, from the way everyone else paled and held their breath in front of her, she had a pretty good idea of what her body actually looked like.

A decaying corpse, a sick female, a crazy woman.

Cassian had not a single reason to want her.

Not a single reason to come back to check if she had read his book.

After those three days, Nesta  _ chooses _ not to read it. She takes it from her bed and hides it inside a coat from her closet, deciding against entertaining a naïve dream that seemed long dead. She reads something else, instead. For three more days, she eats four different poorly written romances that mean absolutely nothing, characters unrelatable and stories uninteresting. Pretty names she had never heard in real life, romantic lines no living being would ever dare say and incredibly pleasurable sex no man - or male, would ever actually bother to perform like.

Not that Nesta knew much; but she knew enough.

It takes tragedy, war, heartbreak, a sudden wave of bitterness and a few bad books for her to recall that there was one man in the world who had taken her. Perhaps living, probably as forgetful as her. After everything, for some fucking reason, Nesta remembers Tomas Mandray and what he had done to her in the dusty floor of the bedroom he shared with his brothers.

She remembers everything about that day.

She remembers leaving the woods after once again failing to find her sister, brow furrowed and bawled fists, thinking to herself that she was more man than him. That in the quiet creep of the forest, she felt even more dangerous than the monsters who shivered out of her path; and whenever she came out of it, alive still, Nesta couldn't help but feel disdain for everyone else's fear.

Even human, Nesta felt like a lioness surrounded by kittens. And after such realization, she decided that she would not, by any means, resign to a life with someone like that.

Tomas was home when she found him: annoyed, dismissive, busy. He was never someone to be trusted, for starters, and maybe she should have known better where her mouth was concerned.  _ Maybe if she had been a little nicer, a little smoother, _ crossed her mind over and over again whenever the memory resurfaced. Maybe if she were a different woman, good, calm, collected; maybe if she hadn't called him a  _ pathetic coward _ \- words that were followed by a bitch slap that hit home in her right cheek with a deafening  _ smack. _

She put up an ugly fight in the floor.

Nesta screamed herself hoarse, cried and pleaded, but not a single soul intervened. Nevermind the house was clearly full, that she could hear his mother in the kitchen and his brothers waiting outside (waiting for  _ what, _ Nesta sometimes wondered, and shivered). Nevermind how closely most of the houses were built and that probably the entire neighbourhood had heard them - she screamed, but so did he. Tomas was loud, his gasping and moaning a filthy sound that made her spine freeze from time to time.

How on earth could she possibly have forgotten that?

Memories drowned, buried, under the horrors that unraveled in the following years.

_ That really happened,  _ Nesta shakes her head in disbelief, and then retrieves Cassian's book from where it was hidden in her closet.

That day was a bad day, but in a way, she had needed it. After three days of trying and three days of giving up, Nesta faces a handful of memories that makes fighting for control a little more meaningful.


	2. not towards or away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I was really fueled by all the love I got, so thank you for that. Would definitely love more, I'm a needy creature. Also. The chapter is named after a song from Fiona Apple's latest album, Fetch the Bold Cutters. It's a really nice album that I would definitely recommend.  
> Hope you like this chapter!!!! It's made with love.

She reads the whole thing in one sitting.

Nesta barely moves as the pages turn, eyes fixed on words that unravel a new universe inside her mind, heartbeat quickening with every other chapter - she has a sore neck by the time it's over.

And she feels awake.

Not in the sense that she might sprint in a wild run, but Nesta feels as if she can put up a fight, least someone else starts one. She feels like a person, like it's really her behind her eyes; Nesta feels like she could use a conversation. A little light, a little air, she feels a little hungry.

Lightning, it's all a little lightning of life, rare seconds of herself, and she's going to ride it all out for as long as it lasts.

The sun sets across the Sidra and Nesta leaves her bedroom willingly, for one. Her hair is a tangled mess from where it had been braided over a week ago, strands twisted and pinned down by a few surviving pins, atrocious, wearing a too large blue dress that she hadn't bothered to lace properly. She wears socks and they are all: no shoes on her feet, and she makes her way out of the house without looking back.

She doesn't go unseen, of course. Nuala and Cerridwen silently watch from the corridors; Feyre and Morrigan sit downstairs, both too stunned to say anything. Elain waves from the garden as she marches out, smiling, as if in all of her secret knowledge of the unknown, she's happy for what's to come.

Though Nesta has no real destination, her feet guide her towards somewhere she might find herself some more lightning to feed a storm. Nesta had seen that place before. Only once, that is, but only once had been enough. It's a fresh memory still: twin ravens chasing them down into a spiral of unending darkness, snarling vicious threats in between rushed footsteps and thundering hearts - it was over. Those males long dead, the library monster still lost, the war over.

The beautiful library with unending shelves that Feyre had shown her once; though the experience was terminated way too soon, it had been one of the most incredible things she had seen in this city. She had wanted to stay for longer, to come often. For about fifteen seconds, Nesta had been content and a little hopeful for whatever awaited her in the future, but it was not, like a great deal of things in her life, long lasting.

Now, alone and faring like a ghost, somehow as fierce as a shark, Nesta could not care less if more ravens were all she found inside.

Naturally, there were none.

Inside, no one besides those quiet priestess' and a few ordinary looking citizens, eyeing shelves and lazing over chairs.

A female soon found her, wearing grey robes of thick cotton and woven yarn, which is when Nesta remembers that they're in the middle of winter and it was supposed to be cold outside. She hadn't realized. Nesta's blood ran so hot, her body so electrified with the sudden wave of adrenaline, she was close to sweating - though her hands were cold and there was a strange chill biting at her skin, the socks wet on her feet.

The priestess didn't speak, but her tilted head, pointed look was enough.

_ What do you want? _

And the unsaid question, which really might have meant anything, didn't exactly seem to be about any books - but Nesta wouldn't have an answer to anything else. So instead, she asks about the author of the book Cassian had given her, hoping to find similar stories or whatever else he had written. And the female, whose name Nesta absolutely not learns, takes her to a very long, full shelf of titles under the male's name, leaving quietly after that. 

She eventually sits with an elected, the summary introducing a story somewhat similar to the last one; and Nesta curls up with a sigh, wipes her cold and yet sweaty hands on her already humid dress, and she reads.

Through the night, dawn and morning. 

She pretends not to notice how Rhysand comes to check on her in the middle of the night and then Azriel, close to dawn, both from afar, as quiet as foxes; or sharks swimming around prey. Either way, she does not bother to move her eyes away from the pages, too engulfed on the new story to shift her focus elsewhere.

Not until morning, until the sun is once again high on the sky, Nesta leaves the library. There's a new book in her hands and an unfunded certainty to her steps; the harsh winds of winter feel so much better than the looming warmth of her sister's home. Though she could have used a coat, perhaps some boots, the winter doesn't bother her at all. If anything, with her fae body, as weak as she was, it felt like child's play. Nesta had had worst. She had been under harsh winter in human form, just as starved, dressed in rags. It had felt like torture then, but as she makes her way back under the drizzle, grey socks and blue dress pitifully drenched, Nesta actually feels… Great.

Azriel and Elain are in the garden when she finds the house (Nesta would never admit to getting a little bit lost), and the blueish bat comes to help when she fails to open the gates on her own. Locked like this, they're too heavy for someone as frail as her, but nothing about the way Azriel helps feels humiliating; though it is a little strange. And though they speak nothing, which is definitely in character for both, Nesta nods to him before walking in, which is thanks enough.

Feyre knows better than to say anything either, but as soon as Nesta crosses the doorstep, she's rushing her sister upstairs, out of her wet clothes and towards a hot bath.

And who would have thought that anyone, least of all Feyre, would be bringing her back inside instead of trying to get her out?

The water is hot; not warm,  _ hot, _ and shallow enough that it barely goes over her navel. It is not nearly as terrifying as it was months ago, but she doesn't love it either. Unless the water is hot, Nesta cannot face it altogether, and she always leaves as soon as it becomes lukewarm. And despite the way it sounds, it wasn't so bad. Nesta eventually learned that she could get closer to the cauldron through her nightmares, than what she could possibly get through a hot bath; as soon as it followed some limitations, that is.

Feyre sits on the edge of the bathtub with a shell shaped bowl in hands, which she uses to pour water over Nesta's head and shoulders every two awkward minutes.

Nesta didn't like being seen for a very vast variety of reasons and she certainly dreaded being assisted like an invalid. By all means, she did not need help to bathe, but sometimes, they insisted. Feyre or Elain, sometimes both, quietly and awkwardly, though she definitely didn't need it. Sometimes they picked her clothes, sometimes they tried to dress her, sometimes they brushed her hair - which she hated, hated, hated.

Nesta couldn't see herself, after all. She only felt her body, she new what it could and could not do. But her sisters, their friends, saw her frail sickly form and sometimes it couldn't get through their minds how she even stood on her own. And some part of her understood that. Whatever repulsive image they were seeing must have been bone chilling, and she was grateful that they cared to help, but it only ever made her feel humiliated. Nesta felt as if everyone closely inspected her imperfections with thick glasses, while she squirmed under their curious stares and tried to move away.

And she definitely wasn't strong enough to help her case.

"It's cold outside." Threading her fingers through Nesta's hair to let the water in, Feyre tried her best to sound unbothered. "Were you looking for a book?" 

_ I wasn't, _ Nesta thinks.

Going out in a bolt of courage, she wasn't really looking for anything. She just wanted to feel the wind, the cold, the rain, the sky; her feet just happened to take her to a library; where she happily found a comfortable place to lounge on, besides so many books. Nesta also liked how the library was a little brown, a little yellow, a little warm. Nothing of the pristine clearness of Feyre's house; how she wasn't  _ the sick female _ there.

But she can't voice any of those things, so -

"Yes."

Feyre's fingers twitch around the bowl, Nesta's unused voice broken and hoarse.

"I hope you found what you were looking for, Nesta."

There is not a single secret in between the High Lord and his High Lady; Nesta knows that Feyre probably had seen it from his eyes as Rhysand curiously spied on her during the night. Feyre knew that she had found a book, maybe even knew the title somehow; maybe she knew that the book she had brought home wasn't the same she had finished in the library. Nesta didn't point it out, though. Didn't have the energy to.

Playing dumb wasn't her favorite thing, but was it really playing dumb if she barely even acknowledged her sister's words?

Nesta was tired.

It's morning, bright and pale, the city is awake and turning, but she curls up in bed to sleep; Feyre is happy to let her go.

She eats nothing for a couple of days, though sleep comes easier.

It was just so easy to fail whenever she came close to succeeding. Nesta felt tired. At all times, tired; whenever she picked up the book, tired; whenever she sat up, tired; whenever she tried to think and wonder, tired; whenever her sisters tried to talk, tired. Which was probably something to do with the fact that she hadn't taken a single bite of anything for days.

On an empty stomach, still. Some part of her is hungry, Nesta knows, but the idea of eating mostly makes her sick. Food turns to ash in her tongue, her mouth dries up like a desert and there is no way she can force anything down, no matter how her insides creak and turn with it's emptiness, how sometimes it feels like she might not have the strength to move her body an inch; and she usually doesn't. She recoils. It's exhaustive and she feels sick at all times. Her bones hurt. Mostly her spine and her hips, her ribs, from lying down for so long.

And her head just can't stop spinning.

There were so many things; so many corrosive feelings, and yet she couldn't name a single one of them as they stumbled over each other, adding to the growing incoherent haze of nameless suffering.

Tired, tired, tired, she sleeps, but there is not a single second of rest.

The third book isn't nearly as good as the one Cassian had given her, nor the one she had finished in the library, but it's good enough. She's not as fast and not as interested, but she makes an effort to move her eyes through the words, which takes give or take a week - nowadays, Nesta has a hard time tracking these things down. It's not her best, but surely not the worst. And by the time the last page is turned, book ended, she dresses up to go back to the library.

Sick, exhausted and famished, Nesta is somehow excited - though for a stranger, the determination on her sharp face could be easily mistaken by murderous willpower or something of the like.

This time around she wears boots, a much warmer dress that looks nice enough and there's an actual coat over her bony shoulders. Nesta has no energy to try and braid her hair, but she still ties it behind her head before leaving. Her hair had always been too wild to let loose. And as it is, long tresses untrimmed, hardly ever brushed or washed, it couldn't possibly be a flattering sight. No one is going to look at her, anyway. There's no use being pretty. And Nesta can't think of anything that could possibly make her look nice despite all.

"The library again?"

Amren is there, for whatever reason. The small female looks fine; better, even. Standing by the window with arms crossed while Mor and Feyre lounge on the couch, a clear warning that even though she's there, the visit might not last long. And you usually don't pester someone who looks like they're leaving. Her mind; an inspiring thing to be envied.

"You should let someone walk you, girl." Amren draws, her stare shamelessly judgemental. Narrowed eyes that are no longer as intimidating do a quick check on her body, which looks much better under the new warm layers. "The bones on your legs might snap any minute now."

Someone gives Amren a warning hiss, but Nesta doesn't pay any attention to who. There's a change in her blood flow; maybe it's adrenaline, presenting itself in whatever little ways it can to put up a fight with fading nothingness.

"You're certainly tall enough to use as a crutch." Nesta delivers her offense, half hearted and lame. Her voice is alien, broken, uneven. She doesn't have much control over her expressions; it probably looks pitiful from outside, but she holds her shoulders back and her chin high.

There's laughter in the house. Amren's lips twitch, eyes alight with amusement, and even though there's a warm feeling in her chest, Nesta can't help but think that maybe they're just laughing at her.

It doesn't take much reading to tell that Amren's onslaught is disguised concern, and perhaps a little test to see if there's anything within those so called weak bones. They all know that she hasn't eaten a thing in well over a week - Nesta knows that Feyre is informed of every single full plate Nuala and Cerridwen take away from her bedroom. There's nervousness hidden in their happy faces and it's clear that they don't really want her to leave the house, much less alone.

Nesta doesn't feel great either.

She still leaves, of course, alone and unbothered, but her vision fades through every step of the way. Things are either too light or too dark, the world going black whenever her steps hit the floor too hard, feet numb. And because her head feels light, both aerial and nauseous, Nesta is only vaguely aware that she is being followed. Someone from the house, she knows, who keeps a respectful distance and steps quickens whenever hers falter.

But Nesta forces one feet in front of the other, facing forward and bracing herself in every turn. She keeps walking through the city, even though her vision of it was a blueish melted mess that gave her the strangest migraine.

When her icy hands finally take hold of the library's dark doors, Nesta's entire body seems to deflate with relief.

Once inside, body swaying dangerously on her feet and threatening to fall to the ground, the same female from before seemed to find her. Nesta doesn't argue with being led by her, head spinning as the shelves passed - and soon enough, she found herself being laid down in a couch, the female's calm face making her believe that this sort of disturbance wasn't necessarily uncommon occurrence.

The shame felt worse than the pain.

This should have been a good day: she dressed up and left the house, for fucks sake. She should have been able to walk and watch the streets, to think and wonder about trivial things as people passed. It's not right; that she can't live like everyone else, that through every minute, she's fighting to survive.

Where is she?  _ Her, _ Nesta Archeron, once a woman of steel, fire and storm, holy made female of silver and black waters; a creature who owned herself and then the world under her feet. How did  _ that _ person became this helpless little thing that needs help to take care of herself or else? And how is she supposed to get better, if she hardly even knows what is this damned problem? How come every single soul seems to have an answer; how come no one else struggles like this? 

It took Nesta maybe an hour to settle back into her own skin. And when she sits up, the female is back with tea, a plate with cookies and two books for her.

They're both academic, in a way. One is science, a long study about channeling magic; the other is some sort of research that analyses societal behaviour. Nesta has absolutely no idea why the female had brought those for her, but she decides against questioning. She eats her entire plate of cookies; one by one, there's 8 of them, and they're soon gone. They taste like butter, cheese and sugar, and the tea doesn't last much longer.

It's the first time she had finished her food, even though it was not a real meal by any means. Still feels like a victory, though, and Nesta opens the book about magic with determination snapping at the tip of her still very cold fingers.

It's quite interesting. The more she reads, the more it makes sense that the female just wanted to try and offer some solutions to her clear issue. The first few chapters of the book insist on how poorly managed magic can have disastrous results; how it kills bodies from inside out. Nesta believes it, but she doesn't think it's her case. Nesta believes herself to be pathetic because that's how people are sometimes; there's a long line of wrongdoings coming back to her in the form of slow death. But she devours the book anyway, devoted to the new information that adds up to the loose pieces Amren had taught her months back.

Nesta can feel her magic. It's always just  _ there, _ travelling under her skin dangerously slow, like a vicious viper twisting before the attack. Sometimes, it feels as if it might burst through her skin and into the world, to ravage whatever harmless things lie around her; sometimes, it feels like they are pushing inside, bursting through her soul and ravaging  _ her _ instead.

But no. It's surely not  _ it. _

And though it does not involve magic in any of it's aspects, the second book is even better. The subject is completely new - Nesta had never heard about people studying… Well. Behaviour. Least of all, behaviour as a collective identity, but the words seeping out of the new book keeps her mind alight with wonder, mouth agape with every other paragraph.

She's not yet finished when Rhysand comes by.

Though the library has no windows, she can pick the time apart by how many pages she had gone through, by the other citizens coming and going, by the cold. Nesta had spent the entire day there, fueled by spite and a plate of cookies. It should be night, somewhere around the hours they dine; Rhysand should be anywhere else but in that library.

"She knows I'm here." Nesta croaks out, trying to keep her eyes focused on the book. And hoping that her gods forsaken in-law would take the clue and leave.

Rhysand was never known for making anyone happy.

"I know." The male shrugs, finally moving from where he was leaning in the end of the corridor. "You managed to stumble your way here."

_ Him, then. _

Nesta has no words for him. She's not sure of what he expects to hear or what should be said, so she simply stares.

"That's a lot of determination for someone who has been dead for months." He finishes, picking the other book from the table in front of her and examining the cover.  _ "Advanced Channeling for Unknown Power Currents. _ Good."

_ I don't want your approval,  _ some part of her wants to snarl. And he's not the one she wants to see either. There's only one male whose annoyance she's willing to endure; Rhysand is not him.

"I like this place as well." He tries, tone softer as a peace offering. "When I need peace. This library…" Rhysand seems to weight his words, and Nesta doesn't bother to imagine why. "This is a safe place for whoever needs it. It's a place for healing. I'm happy you found it."

He means his words, Nesta knows, but it doesn't mean much to her. Rhysand had promised her safety before; at least twice, for that matter, and he fell short of his mark both times. He promised safety when she was a human girl; when he stationed a dozen sentries in their father's property, and still, she and Elain were now fae. In the end, the fae sentries were as helpless as the human servants when the Hybern soldiers came over, and Rhysand was there to watch the result of his commitment as they were both trust into the cauldron. Then, he had promised them a safe city of never once breached domains; over and over assured that in Velaris they were safe and sound.

The lights didn't even stay on when the ravens of Hybern invaded.

Rhysand flinches, beautiful face both dark and cringing. Maybe her thoughts were too loud - or maybe the High Lord had realized those things in his own accords.

She honestly doesn't care.

"He," Nesta is not sure of what she means to say; what that question should be.  _ Where is he? Why is he not here? What is he doing? What happened to him? When is the next time he's coming? _ She chooses a simple alternative, instead. "Cassian."

Rhysand, bless him, seems to understand all the questions hidden inside that single word.

"He's been in Illyria for months now. There's conflict brewing in the camps and he's there to keep a close watch." Rhysand offers, setting the book down on the table. "He's coming back one of these days. For the solstice."

Nesta is not sure if his words are some sort of encouragement for her to get downstairs and celebrate with them when the day comes; or if he's trying to make her feel better about his absence. Instead, all she can hear is that Cassian had left the city altogether, that he was currently living all the way across the damned land.  _ For how long, _ she didn't dare ask.  _ And is it safe there? _ Though some part of her already knows the answer.

And what she wants to know, what she truly wants to know, is a question Nesta won't even dare think inside her own mind.

"He asks about you every time we speak."

It makes her heart skip a beat; or beat too fast, she's not sure. That should be a good thing; the growing fog in her mind makes it hard to dissect.

_ He asks about you every time we speak. _

Why on earth did he still bother? Nesta was the breathing corpse, the insane female withering in the shadows of her own mind. Dying slowly on top of her bed; much like her mother did, a lifetime ago.

The memory sends shivers down her spine - so Nesta shook it off her head, Rhysand's words making her insides a little warmer than before, somehow.

"There's no much material for an answer." She tilts her head, letting the book rest on her lap for once. "I take it you were either repeating yourself or silent."

The male's silence is as enigmatic as hers, and Nesta doesn't make an effort to decipher him. Rhysand has a good front; he's good with his words and even more so with his face, but no one is nearly as good as her. With a little effort, Nesta would have probably been able to dismember his mind bit by bit, but she really, truly, honestly didn't care. Beautiful High Lord of the Night Court or not, her sister's mate was the most uninteresting person she knew.

"May I make a recommendation?" Rhysand asks, waving his hand around as a new book appeared in between his long fingers. "It's a good one."

He places it on the table when Nesta doesn't object, and there's some sort of contentment in his face when he turns to leave.

"Is he alright?" She blurts out before the words disappear, looking down to her book; her lap.

"I can assure you that Cassian is the most threatening thing about that place." Rhysand sways on his feet, eyes fixed on the ceiling and pretending to miss the real intention of her question. "As fine as he could possibly be."

Nesta doesn't push; she was never known for insistence. Or wanting Rhysand's company, for that matter.

But there is Cassian - up in the mountains, so far away from her. He had gone without a warning, and even though some part of her understands his reason, she can't help but feel a little hurt. And then, concerned.  _ Conflict brewing in the mountains. _ Was he alone there? Being the most threatening, the strongest, didn't mean much if there was a full crowd of mediocre warriors to push him down.

The concern threatens to swallow her whole.

Nesta doesn't look up to watch Rhysand go, but she eventually leans forward to catch the title of the new book he had left for her.

_ The Scars of Colonialism  _ just so happens to be the perfect fit for the sociological book she already had in hands.


	3. under the table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I'M BACK. Here's a new chapter. I don't know what to say about it. Everyone's love is incredibly warning! I've had a hard time writing this week, so it took a little longer to update. Well. That's all for now.

The next time Cassian comes to Velaris, he lands with a sigh.

Only half of it is actual exhaustion.

The journey from the steppes wasn't a short one: Illyria and the City of Starlight sat on the opposite sides of the Night Court. That, with the cold, the biting wind and the snow, didn't make for an easy flight. Also, his bag was slightly heavier than what it actually needed to be - but that's not really _it._ Cassian had made that trip before, way too many times to count; in a few isolate occasions, had done so back and forth in a single day.

What drains the light out of his spirit, when Cassian lands with eyes fixed on her snow coated windows, is the fear of what will meet him when he comes inside that bedroom again. What level of malnutrition he'll find Nesta in; if her cheeks will be sharper and her frail skin even thinner. If she'll be lying down again, eyes lost and glazed over. How it'll make his eyes line up with tears every single time hers move a little more alight.

Or the grim, pitiful look he received from everyone before walking in.

Cassian takes a deep breath before crossing the doorstep, armouring himself for all that's to come through the course of the week - but when Feyre crushes him into a hug as hard as her small arms can make it, his front is shaken out of it. He spins his High Lady around in the air because - well, that's what he does. It wouldn't be him if he didn't indulge his heart a little bit; because he loves Feyre like the strange sister she is and because after being away for so long in that damned place, he's completely starved for love and attention.

Setting her down, bickering, it warms him almost instantly. _That's one,_ he notes. Cassian still needs the rest of his family, but the house is seemingly empty; he can hear the hollow of the rooms. There are not too many hearts beating inside the property, so he doesn't bother to look around. And because honestly, it's the only thing he actually wants to do, Cassian makes for the stairs, to find Nesta in her bedroom.

"She's not there." Feyre calls when he climbs the first step, freezing immediately as she spoke. "She's in the library."

"The library," Cassian repeats before the words even register in his mind, "she's in the library."

"Yes, that's what I said." Feyre rolls her eyes, arms crossed, but there's nothing truly annoyed about her pacific face. She's almost light on her feet, as if something heavy had been lifted off her shoulders. "The library. I'm not sure why. She's there all the time now, through days on end. Sometimes I need to go and coerce her back here."

"The library." Cassian says again, the first information barely sinking in as more was added on. "She's… How is she?"

Feyre's eyes seem to flicker a little with that, darkening a few shades, but Cassian is not shaken by it. He knew not to hope high or expect too much from anything; since he was a young boy, at that. It would have been naive to expect Nesta to have come full cycle in the time span of a month, unprompted. He knows better.

"Getting out. Speaks a little." Feyre offers, letting her arms fall to the sides. "Still doesn't eat much, but she's eating more than before. And I think… Well, she's reading a lot. She reads there and then brings more books when she comes back home."

It's not too much, but at the same time, it is. Cassian knows, because for someone who was hardly awake with eyes opened, this little exhibit of control was exceptional. He also knows what type of place the library is; how it embraces females to put them back on their feet. And Nesta - he remembers, _he knows._ He knows, perhaps better than everyone else, how that's the perfect place for her.

"Velaris will run out of romance novels soon, then." He mumbles, trying to hold down his excitement.

"Not really." She laughs, moving to sit on the couch with a book of her own, pulling a blanket over her legs. "Rhysand said that she's mostly reading about magic, science and some history things. I'm not sure. He thinks she's studying."

_Studying._

Considering how grim he had been about coming in, Cassian hadn't expected to feel so good about it. But he does; for fucks sake, he feels stellar. Overjoyed, electrified.

His fingers twitch on his sides.

"Do you think I should go see her now?" The illyrian hates to ask instead of following his instincts, but he asks anyways. He hasn't been around for a long time, so there's no way he truly knows what's best for her; definitely not right now. Cassian swallows his pride for her, does it so happily. "Or will she hit me with a book for the audacity?"

After being away for so long… Cassian had only visited three times, once bringing a book and a few rambled words; he should be mortified about showing his face right now. About his behavior; or lack of thereof. And he is, in a way, but the other feelings mounted on his heart are way louder; Cassian's shame is easily overridden by his worry, his unquestionable awe, his passion, his love for her.

"It's fine, I think. You can go." Feyre shrugs, stretching her limbs lazily. "Rhysand sees her all the time; they share books sometimes." Her voice is almost casual, but she makes a quick correction after his eyes widen. "Don't ask me, I've got no idea. But… Nesta left this morning, so she'll probably spend the rest of the day there. You can go later, somewhere around dinner time. Maybe you can bring her back and make her sit at the table."

_Oh._

"She's doing meals now?" His heart jumps.

"Ah… No, not really. But I was hoping…"

She never finishes the sentence and Cassian doesn't press her either - somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows what she had tried to say. And the silence doesn't stretch for long: Azriel eventually comes in, Rhysand trailing right behind him, and Cassian decides to go with Feyre's plan.

He's free to see her whenever, but it's a smarter move to wait a little longer. Come and find her in the library when she's tired out, possibly hungry, he can try to make her eat.

As for now, he can stay back with the rest of his family - even though she's the only thing in his mind the whole time.

.

Nesta learns that she loves that strange fae science - sociology.

Paired with history and philosophy, in a couple of weeks and many books later, Nesta has found an hyper fixation that keeps her eyes alight: to study culture, economy, conflict, law, magic, society and behaviour. Gender and sex. Race. There are just so many things that she's vaguely aware of; things that become rich and crystal clear as she pours those books over herself. A new understanding of things that she couldn't have possibly have imagined from her point of view; or being capable to relate to studies and see, through diagnostic analysis, how complex those things actually were.

Nesta is pleasantly surprised to learn that many of those fae studies could easily apply to humanity as well, even though they had different cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds - terms she learned after reading a couple of books.

The new information, the different theories, take place in her mind and push away the fog. Where Nesta once was a nebulous rain, she's now a clear sky of curiosity. She can't stop going over and over those subjects, layering her new knowledge over her current and past reality, sorting through memories; dissecting how they unfold and turn.

Nesta is awake; at all times, awake.

She doesn't sleep much, but food comes easier.

And when Cassian finally sees her after well over a month, buried under five tall piles of dense looking books, his heart might have burst on the spot. Granted, she doesn't look much bigger, but upon closer inspection, it does look like there's a little more filling under her skin. Her bones are a little more cushioned and there is some color on her face. Though still pale, there are some yellowish hues to what he can see of her body, her hair looks shinier, there's none of those dark shadows on her beautiful face.

He watches from afar, heart taken by the way her face scrunches into an adorable frown, eyes focused on the book on her hands and nothing more.

_Nesta._

Nesta, his Nesta, _there she is._

Cassian had meant to walk up and surprise her with some stupid teasing remark, but he finds that he can't move; hell, he can barely breathe. So he stands there, staring, until the other fae realizes his presence instead.

And she doesn't understand; needs to look up and down a couple of times before realizing that Cassian is a real thing, standing there alive and breathing.

"Hi, sweetheart." Cassian tries when she doesn't say anything. And he's so nervous, close to sweating; almost shifting on his feet. It takes control, so much control, to hold himself together under her stare. "How are you?"

She remains quiet; he sees the look on her face, though. Perhaps as nervous as he is, certainly shocked, judging by the way her mouth hangs open a little bit. And her mouth - her lips, even though still pale, look somewhat pink now. So do her cheeks, as a faint blush rushes to her face.

"I didn't know you were here." Nesta says, voice strange; shaken up. _"Hi."_

Cassian smiles big, lips stretching over his teeth, and he walks further into the corridor she had made a home out of. It smelled like her in there; the books, the shelves, the chairs. There's the small couch where she sits - from what Feyre had told him, where she also sleeps in some days, and a low coffee table where her books are piled. The pillows also smell like her, Cassian notes as he sits, and then _fuck,_ there's _her._

It never changed; the earth-shattering feeling of having the air knocked out of his lungs whenever he came around her.

Nesta, he had missed her so much. He missed her from afar and then, in those times he visited, he missed the female she once was. And now, sitting by her side, as she stares with eyes alert and cunning, Cassian feels as if he might faint.

He needed her; needed her in so many ways, some more selfish than others. It had been months since he had even entertained anything sensual towards her. Even before the war bled in it's peak, before he had any hopes for her, Cassian hadn't had the time or the interest to take on any lovers. And after it passed, when he sometimes burned hot with desire, there was only one person he could have possibly wanted - but she was sick, withering and fading away as despair ate her from inside out, all the way across the land. And that wasn't all. He missed her backhanded offense, her annoying wit, the quick mind, observing nature, their banter, their comfortable quiet. All of the while, _his_ \- well, Nesta, seemed to be locked inside her own mind.

Cassian suffered by correlation and he hated himself for not being there, but things weren't so simple. Illyria was a fucking mess in it's own accords and he couldn't pass the responsibility down to any other miserable bastard - it was his duty as the General Commander of the Night Court to care not only for their armies, but for the peace of their people. He also wanted to give his brothers some peace; even though he didn't have any.

Even though is cost them _their_ peace.

"Did you read the book I gave you?"

Cassian eyes the messy piles over the table, head tilted. He doesn't know what to say. Or, well - in reality, there was an infinity of things that he actually wanted to know and ask, but when it came down to it, the words escaped his mind completely. The ones who didn't, made him second guess, so he blurted out the first thing that popped in his mind instead.

"Yes."

"And what did you think?" He prompted casually, shifting on the couch to get to a more comfortable position.

The furniture wasn't made to accommodate wings; he couldn't rest on his back. The illyrian sat on his side then, facing her, wings resting over the cushion behind them. It was good: stretching his arm over the top, behind her back, and Nesta leaned closer into it. Cassian bit down his excitement, again, though it was hard to hide the smile on his eyes.

"I loved it."

Maybe someone else would have been surprised by her unblinking straight forward answer, but he wasn't. That was Nesta; the female was known for her honesty. She didn't lie, didn't back down from whatever questions, however personal they sometimes were. The world just seemed to have a laugh from interrupting her answers, cutting her short, but it didn't happen this time. Cassian would kick away a thunderstorm, if it dared get in between them at the moment.

"Good." He murmurs, angling his head to leave a kiss to her shoulder; Cassian rejoices when she doesn't move away from him. Her head doesn't tilt an inch when he looks back up, eyes meeting so close; and there's so much life within those blue grey irises.

She has absolutely no idea of what's going on - and he doesn't either. Their relationship was cut short on the strangest terms. No one had ever verbalized that it was over and at the same time, no one had verbalized _when_ or _if_ it had actually started at all. _Sure._ Fighting, protecting and kissing each other goodbye to face death together in each others arms; it was quite telling. Still, what the hell were they?

Did Cassian still want her; was that it? She… 

Nesta had a flooding ocean of emotions where the illyrian was concerned, but she wasn't quite sure of what those things really meant.

They have so much and yet, not a single thing to say. Nesta, however healed, is still miles away from having a full grip of herself and Cassian, _well,_ Cassian was never known for being good with any words. 

So they simply remain quiet.

Nesta shifts even closer to him, her side touching with his warm chest, and she goes back to her book. Cassian is happy to watch, face nuzzling the top of her head and the sides of her face, feeling, inhaling, eventually reading some of the lines from the book in her hands. Cassian hadn't felt that much calm in such a long, long time. He doesn't bother with coercing her into coming back for dinner in the townhouse; disrupting that moment would have been close to something much like a sin.

He stays quiet, then, letting Nesta go through her book as she leans on his body peacefully. It goes on for a couple of hours into the night, and _she's incredibly quick,_ Cassian realizes, until she's done reading the last page and the book is snapped shut on her lap.

After so long, Nesta can't remember the last time she had felt that good either. And she almost decides on taking another book from the pile, to hopefully keep the simple joy going, but she reconsiders.

The illyrian warrior wasn't like her. He's a normal person who eats dinner and sleeps; who's probably already bored out of his mind for staying so long in between those bookshelves. She might have gotten used to boredom, starvation and sleeplessness, but that's not Cassian; and she's not about to make him miserable. Not consciously, at least.

"Do you want to eat?" She tries, looking up at him with tired eyes.

Nesta is not actually _that_ hungry and it's not like she knows a place either, but trying is better than eventually feeling like she's holding him down.

"There's a good place right behind this street." He nods at her with a lazy smile, though his eyes are clear and alight.

An invitation.

For whatever reason, there's a sudden line of warning signs slamming at her head and pleading for her to deny it. She doesn't want to come out; she doesn't want to go to a restaurant, to be seen by anyone else. She doesn't want to have to eat after the food is placed on the table. There's way too much pressure to eat when the food is presented that way, especially if Cassian will be the only one there, eyes alert on her every move. Nesta doesn't want to be seen; she doesn't like being seen. Or judged. Maybe that was a mistake; she's going to refuse, but -

"Sure." She nods, biting down her discomfort.

Cassian sees right through it, but he says nothing. He wants to push however far she'll go. It's dinner outside; he knows Nesta hasn't even sat on the dinner table from the townhouse. It's a big, large step; maybe she'll cower the second they step in the cold street, but as long as she's willing to try, he'll be there to brace her steps.

They organize the books before leaving: some belong to that very corridor, but some have to go back to different floors. He asks about them, arms full, and she speaks freely, lost in their content even though the pages are all closed.

Rhysand and Feyre were right: she _was_ studying.

Studying was a good step; studying meant that at some point, she'd agree to training. And he's not that dense - Cassian knows not to push her into the warrior life she's not remotely interested on, but there are forces inside her that still need management. It's magic: it needs to be exercised and controlled. And to have control, keep in movement, is a good thing, especially for someone like her.

Besides, she _does_ need to train a little. Nesta has to learn how to defend herself; her sudden position as part of the Night Court and direct member of Rhysand's family doesn't put her in a necessarily safe place. She was a good target, especially if fragile and defenseless. If Cassian was to look at it as Rhysand's General Commander, he'd deem Nesta a loose end to either be fixed or cut short.

But he didn't dwell on it for too long.

This was a subject for another day, perhaps another month; all dark thoughts clear out of his mind when his hand finds hers, fingers laced, and the two of them leave the library to eat.

.

Some people stare as they pass; Nesta knows, because her mind is extremely alert as they walk. 

It isn't snowing; or raining, for one, but the dark ground shines wet and there's snow piled in every corner of the city. It's cold; after the sunset, the low temperature only gets more intense with every hour, Nesta learned. It shouldn't get better until morning, but she feels fine. Just a little cold, perhaps, but mostly fine. Besides, Cassian's presence by her side is inexplicably warming, his palm against hers like a living fire seeping heat into her body. She's also vaguely aware of the leathery wing lightly stretched behind her back; she can tell how it cuts the wind from her body.

Unlike most of them, Nesta doesn't wear leather or any fur. They felt too heavy, too tight, too constricted. Sometimes, too pretty and too expensive; she didn't like those, wanted to shy away from beauty and luxury as hard as possible. She wears thick cotton and yarn instead; it keeps her warm enough, her grey wool coat the least flattering thing and yet, her favorite piece of clothing.

Nesta didn't care about the way she looked - not anymore, at least. She hadn't given a damn for months and sure as hell still didn't. In fact, she kind of liked it: the new unkept, free way in which she held herself. It felt like some sort of rebellious revolution, and she didn't mind everyone else's judgement. Not one bit. After everything, after reaching the worst, after being the _breathing corpse,_ Nesta decides that she might as well own it.

And it had been mostly fine - the new confidence was a good feeling.

Until, that is, Nesta walks inside that adorably little restaurant, yellow and romantic, Cassian's hand laced in hers like a glove. Nesta realizes the unspoken facts about that gesture and the first thing that comes to her mind is that she looked disheveled, pale, flat and sick; her clothes are grey and dull, basic and cheap. She hadn't showered since morning, her face was a mixture of sweat and dust.

And she knows that Cassian, who looks so unfairly good in his simple leathers, couldn't care less about it. He probably didn't even notice; but she knows, judging by the stares they get, that everyone one else had.

She locks her jaw with determination, though.

Maybe Nesta can no longer be the most beautiful, most elegant, most well-kept. But if she must be a haunting creep, then Velaris will witness the most exquisite ghost to ever roam it's streets - it's what she tells herself, as the nervousness still bites at her skin.

They sit in a table by the wall - she faces the windows and he, the rest of the restaurant. Nesta is not sure what's more unnerving; not being able to watch the entryways or not being able to watch the people behind her back, but she forces herself still in her chair.

It is a truly beautiful place, as tiny as it is, and she wishes to have met this place before all; or perhaps later, whenever she's no longer such a mess. But they're here now, a smiling waitress coming to their table with a notepad in hands, and Nesta knows not to destroy whatever little ways of content fate throws in her direction.

She likes Cassian, she likes being around him. It shouldn't be so hard. Nevermind she's afraid of what will happen when the food comes. Nesta tries not to predict herself taking a bite, finding that she can't swallow anything at all, and then ruining their little night in this adorable place Cassian had brought her to.

The freckled female, who presents herself as Noele, tells them about all the meals they had prepared for the night - it's not a very long list, since they had come so late. But there's still quite the variety and against all odds, Nesta finds herself interested by one of the dishes Noele had offered; and the spicy smell travelling inside the restaurant makes her mouth water a little bit. Cassian wants the same, smiling bright, and he soon starts talking when Nesta is too nervous to start it herself.

And as he speaks about all that's happened in Illyria, both enthusiastic and calm, eyes so soft and smiling towards her, Nesta can't help but think that she loves, loves, loves him.

Even when the food comes, she can't tear her eyes away from his, too immersed in all he has to say; recalling things she had just learned from those books and applying them to the situation in his homeland, sharing her epiphanies and thoughts.

She eats; the whole plate, she eats as they speak, eyes both on his and on the food, mind working quickly as she processes his voice and he processes hers.

 _There she is,_ Cassian thinks once again, a warm chest against all odds of winter. How smart she is, how cunning she is, how bright is that beautiful mind. Awake and burning. _There she is, alive,_ and Cassian loves, loves, loves her.


	4. bright flamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. I've gotten such sweet response from the last chapter!!! I hope you guys like this as well. Points are turning.

For someone who had been so adamant against celebrating fae holidays, Nesta was sure as hell quiet as she crossed the streets of Velaris with shopping bags in hands.

Feyre had invited her and Elain to shop for solstice gifts in the morning, right before Nesta could once again leave for the library, and even though every part of her absolutely  _ did not _ want to, she reasoned with herself and accepted the offer. She did want to show a little gratitude for the females from the library, whose names she eventually had learned. There she had found some friends, every single one of them as weird and quiet as she was, mutually taking care of one another and helping organize the books around.

And since she was not very good with words, making herself vulnerable, maybe a material thanks would do the trick just fine.

Also, maybe she could find something for Cassian, even though she had absolutely no idea of what to do; what he could have possibly wanted. Hell, by logic, she didn't even know him well enough to tell the things he liked. After all, what did she really know about him?

He was a legendary warrior, annoying as fuck, couldn't help but run his mouth, was always hungry,  _ apparently _ could read (even though she had never witnessed such thing happen before), and he was also the unquestionable love of her life.

But no, she didn't know much. They hadn't known each other for long, hadn't had time to familiarize with the other's likes and tastes. Yes, looking at Cassian's eyes often gave her the sensation that the world was about to end under her feet, but it didn't mean that she knew what books he liked, what sizes he wore, what material things he wanted. And she was not about to gift him yet another weapon, as he surely already had more than enough of those.

While her -  _ huh, _ Cassian, might be some sort of mystery, shopping for her friends from the library comes off as quite easy. She finds a stationary store close to the artists alley, which Feyre is also happy to visit. Inside, there are all sorts of useful things for people like them: pens and pencils, fancy bookmarks, artistic tools, paints, colorful paper, clips, clipboards, notebooks, small lanterns for reading; and Nesta falls in love with those.

Nesta buys so many of those, the store is almost out of it's stock by the time she leaves. And it's a given, maybe she could have bought something for Feyre there, but the gift she plans to give to her younger sister, a 21 year old made queen, is a sociological book and no less. In fact, the new copy of one of her favorite titles had been bought in the very same day Nesta had finished hers.

With every turned page of the damned book, she couldn't help but think of how helpful, how useful it would have been for the new High Lady - and everyone else who had fallen under her ruling. 

They needed to be useful. Gifts needed to be useful, because some part of her was still not used to the idea of wasting money or time in something useless and meaningless. Hell, she could barely understand the purpose of that holiday. Why did celebrating  _ one  _ day matter, if winter was going to last at least two full months?

And though it had not been her main priority when Nesta had agreed to come, it bites at her mind every time they leave another store and she has not yet seen anything for Cassian.

Feyre convinces her and Elain to have lunch in a restaurant after shopping, which she, of course, only tries because she had heard of Cassian's success in taking Nesta for dinner. A full meal, big plate, devoured to nothing; Feyre is dying to make it happen and see it with her own eyes. Like she'd let her commander have all the glory.

And Nesta eats; though annoyed at how her sisters are clearly watching her plate every two minutes.

Feyre and Elain were never known for exceeding in subtlety.

She manages to ditch her sisters after lunch, completely unbothered by their protests, and finds her way back to the library around noon - though Nesta loves being around Cassian, she also has not a single purpose to explain her trailing after him. She already ate. What else can they possibly do? Go hunting, terrorise children, have a structured debate, an illyrian sword fight? 

Nesta knows what Feyre and Rhysand did in their free time, but  _ that _ won't do.

So she goes to the library, for one wishing that she were anywhere else instead; wherever he was - something she didn't know and definitely wasn't about to go asking.

The things Cassian had told her about Illyria nagged at her nerves, though.

Despite all that folk had done to him and his mother, despite the ill treatment that he still got from them, Cassian still had so much love for that place. He worried about them, about their well being, about their current state. Because it was clear that through their thick skin and hard brutality, lay unquestionable suavity and stark beauty. Illyrians were exquisite.

Cassian was vaguely aware of it, but Nesta had explained with her somewhat academic knowledge that their violent culture and seemingly savage nature were but a reflex from being purposefully breed for war through millennia. Rough settings being frequently advertised as their identity, Illyrians were always being strategically manipulated into the life they didn't truly choose, their ancestors true culture long buried under the mud from the war camps built by colonizers.

He had never heard those things being voiced like that, but Cassian couldn't help but marvel as Nesta spoke.

And she was so, so happy to help. 

Because conflict brewing in Illyria meant conflict brewing inside Cassian's already too big head. It meant that he had to stay away, alone in the middle of a reported rebellion. And no matter how carefully Rhysand tried to butter his words for her, Nesta knew how dangerous and delicate things were.

So there she was. Buried under a pile of books about Illyrian history, anatomy and decreasing conflict.

Maybe the best gift she could get for Cassian was no gift at all; maybe she could devote her mind to helping him instead. It would be useful, that's for sure.

Rhysand, that annoying snaky bastard, did find her a little after the sunset.

"Gossip has it you were shopping for solstice this afternoon." He mused, sitting on _her_ couch like he owned it. Though, well… He actually kind of did. "Did you buy my gift yet, dear sister?"

Nesta  _ did _ try not to roll her eyes back, but it was so damn hard. The male was insufferable, but not in an amusing way; his entitlement to the world certainly didn't help. And Nesta… Could tolerate her in-law slightly better now; it seemed to be a slow process amidst a careful construction. It helped that both could not care less about meaningless pleasantry; conversation only ever happened in the form of object discussion or light-hearted "vicious" nagging.

Limitless offense and hard pushing was good, when they knew the other side could take the hit.

Rhysand called it a friendship, Nesta called it a strategic truce. Feyre still had no intentions to try and understand the strange dynamics, whereas Cassian thought it was completely hilarious. Amren had her thoughts as well: it came in the form of a threat when she detailed what would happen to Rhysand's balls if he decided to take a new second in command.

The dinner table had been incredibly silent after that; but Nesta wasn't there to witness it. She was in the library, of course.

"I don't see the point of buying you a gift with your own money." She scoffed, not bothering to look up from her book.

It did bother her when he sat on her couch; it wasn't very spacious and physical proximity made Nesta uneasy. Cassian was an exception, but well, it was an incredibly self explanatory case.

If Rhysand ever noticed her discomfort, he never once acted on it - Nesta wasn't sure if she hated his audacity or was grateful for being challenged.

"Well, you see, my family is composed by my own employees." He reasoned, head tilted in mock consideration. "I have paid for all of their salaries for as long as they've worked. My mate included. If there is one thing I won't mind, is have my money come back to me with a little seasoning of gratitude."

Nesta almost smiled at that;  _ almost, _ though Rhysand did notice how her eyes wrinkled.

"But I'm not your employee." She shrugged, finally giving up on her book to look at her inconvenient in-law. "I don't do any work."

"You sure do." Rhysand contested without missing a beat, face unwavering. "You don't have a position, besides being my lovely sister," a sarcastic smile bore into his beautiful face, "but you have served my court. During war, no less. And I'm not sure of what you're doing right now, Nesta," Rhysand finally got up from the couch, unashamedly eyeing her books on Illyrian history. "But I have a feeling that you're about to do it again." 

.

Fuck whatever she had said before.

"No gift" was  _ not _ the best gift.

Nesta knows, because when Cassian comes to find her again during the night, she can barely focus on her book as her thoughts circle around solstice gifts for him.

And, well… Him. The words in front of her aside, the turmoil on her mind aside, Nesta becomes very conscious of Cassian's body on hers. They had done the same thing the night before, sitting on the couch attached by the hip; but Nesta had been so immersed on her book, she barely registered it. Now, though, as she analyses possible gifts while pretending to read, the feeling of his body doesn't escape her at all.

The hard panes of his chest are hot against her shoulder, his stomach glued to her waist; there's one arm behind her shoulders, her legs nestled in between his. There's Cassian's warm face nuzzling into her head and the sides of her face; leaving kisses, unashamedly inhaling her scent. And what she definitely hadn't noticed before: his other hand curled around her thigh, so intimate, which somehow makes everything become so hot close to her -

Nesta can't even remember the last time she had touched herself.

Hell, probably not since she had become fae. It never felt right, even though she sometimes felt a little warm; all before the war, of course. She hadn't felt a thing from the moment they stepped into those war camps and it had stayed that way for months on end. And now, for once, Nesta feels like she might act out if her damned illyrian dared to rise his hand a little higher; grasp her thigh a little harder.

"What exactly are you doing?" She draws out, happy with her even tone.

Nesta looks down to her thighs and then back to his face, eyes playfully narrowed; and something inside her flutters when he doesn't shy away from the accusation.

"I'm not sure. What do you think it is?" Cassian's eyes trail lower, leaving her face and landing on her cleavage; and she does the same, only to learn that her chest was flushed bright red. "Do tell, sweetheart."

"You're incorrigible." She whispers, feeling her cheeks blush just as hard.

Cassian hums, leaning in to kiss her hair again; but this time, he catches the tip of her pointed ear with his teeth, nibbling gently at the delicate membrane before letting go with another kiss. And Nesta feels her insides vibrate, hairs rising all over her skin as he went; her released ear both hot and cold where the air brushed at the wetness he had left.

And Nesta is so electrified, she doesn't miss the noise of footsteps moving a few shelves away from them, so she swats at his hard chest to cut it out.

"Stop that!" Her reprimand comes in a rushed whisper, but her rapidly rising chest and flushed skin are a good contradiction to the words. "This is not the place."

His grin only widens at that, though he does keep his mouth to himself.

"I like that choice of words, sweetheart." Cassian plays, hand moving away from her thigh, closer to her knee. "Are you implying we can take this somewhere else?

Cassian doesn't really mean it, she knows, because despite the teasing words, he provokes her body no more. And even though she's secretly disappointed by the loss, she's also incredibly grateful that he would let go if she asked.

It makes her warm, but in a way that isn't sexual; it's closer to her heart.

It's different - it's so shockingly different, how nothing about him makes her uncomfortable or sick. For Cassian she has love and trust, new and unquestionable, raw and true. She knows he would never push, never force, never go against her wishes; with him, Nesta didn't have to hold a fight stance. His touch didn't feel like greedy taking, but loving caress.

And she did want him, but - well, timing felt strange.

"I'm not…" She cut herself short, not yet sure of what to say. Nesta didn't feel confident to try anything sexual after all; that bastard Mandray hadn't left a good impression and she had never even touched herself in this new, strange body. Which was so conflicting because hell, she wanted, wanted, wanted him so fiercely. Her body was still reduced to flames, even though Cassian had retreated. "Dinner?"

Cassian doesn't mock the drastic subject change, to which she is thankful for. He kisses her temple again, gentle, and they both get up from where they were so comfortably laced on the couch. They don't leave before taking all the books back to their righteous places and when they do leave the library, not even the biting chill of winter manages to snatch Nesta's heat away.

They were nearing the solstice, Nesta knows. She'd have no more than two days to find his gift, whatever it was meant to be, and then Cassian would be out of Velaris and into the world again -

And when the Illyrian sweeps her off her feet, bearing a satisfied grin after convincing her to fly with him to find their new restaurant, an idea flashes right before her eyes.

.

Nesta closes - and locks - her bedroom door as quietly as she possibly could.

The opportunity couldn't be more perfect and the world be damned if she didn't give it a try.

Elain, like always, had gone to bed early in the night; everyone else had gone out for one last drink before their favorite bar was closed for the holidays. She had been invited when they landed from dinner, and Cassian did refuse to go when she decided against it; but in the end, she managed to assure him that it was fine and he should go.

Which left her alone to herself in an almost empty house where no prying ears would catch her as she tried to, well.

Make a test, if you will.

There is a little preparation for her purely scientific investigation: beyond the locked door, she also draws the curtains over her windows (not before curiously checking the street), pulls her blankets away and carefully places a towel in the middle of the mattress, clad only by thin cotton sheets.

Nesta undresses; and her heart beats painfully fast, something strange roaring at her ears as the fabric moves against her skin. The grey coat she folds over her armchair, the faded blue dress she carelessly throws in the bathroom floor. Her undergarments; Nesta moves her hands over her breasts, feeling her peaked nipples over the simple polyamide top, and her skin shivers when she takes it off to let them fall.

The end of her undergarments are soaked when she slides them off her hips and down her legs. Pale white cotton fabric glistens, nearly transparent, and Nesta's hands shake a little when she throws them right above her dress. Then, she climbs in the bed, lying on her back with hips positioned over the towel; and with closed eyes, Nesta takes her fingers to her very center.

She's wet; so wet, had been through the entire night. And there's a sweet ache on the sensitive flesh as she begins to move, finding that one spot that made her toes curl, and she kept them there.

It was different and yet, much of the same. Nesta can't remember being so sensitive when her body was human, and in moments like this, back then, her hands were much less steady. It's fine, because she doesn't go fast; it's an investigation, after all, and Nesta wants to take her time in figuring herself out. Again.

She touches herself, gently and steady, the tip of her finger circling that most sensitive part, and dragged it out until her legs began to shift, hips moving and pressing harder into her hand, until she had no other alternative but pick up the pace because  _ what in the goddamn hell, _ she felt so good.

Though the air was pressing out of her lungs and she barely had the coordination to take more in, as that hot ache only grew sweeter and sweeter in between her legs, Nesta did not allow herself to moan or breathe too loud.

Even though Elain was asleep, she knew how incredibly sensitive her sister's hearing was. Besides, she didn't want to take her chances with anyone else, so regardless of how hard it had become to keep it all in, Nesta directioned all of her control to force herself quiet - but she did not stop the touching. No, she did not; Nesta would probably burst into a storm, if by any chances her adventure was ceased short.

And as she goes, legs tensing and hips bucking up, eyes tightly shut as her head is pressed harder into her pillows, Nesta can't help but wish there was someone else with her. She thinks of Cassian, infuriating and rough, irking her nerves out of her skin since the very first time they had locked eyes; she thinks of his body, how hard and heavy the illyrian would be against her; thinks of how his copper skin would feel drenched in sweat, hips pressed impossibly tight against hers -

And his voice; his crying, what kind of male Cassian was? Was he the type who kept quiet until the end? The type who snarled and growled, the type who moaned and let out breathy sounds? Did he like to talk dirty, since he already had such a filthy mouth?

Would he find his pleasure with her name on his lips?

Because even though she said nothing, his name was flashing bright right before her eyes when  _ she _ did. Body so, so tense, all muscles locked tight, and pure joy cursing her flesh as she still blindly moved her fingers to help herself ride it all out. And after her release came to an end, thighs spasming as the rest of her lay limp, Nesta couldn't help the satisfied smile that crept out as she watched the unruly muscles twitch.

After all, as tired as she was, Nesta didn't bother to bathe or clean herself to sleep.

She simply turned around, smiling; feeling satisfied and unashamedly whole, confident within herself. With one last sigh, Nesta fell in perfectly undisturbed deep slumber, covered in sweat and feeling incredibly warm despite the lack of any layers.


	5. I want you to love me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Want You To Love Me - Fiona Apple, Fetch the Bolt Cutters. We could take those lyrics and write nessian around it's verses. It's the song that made me want to write this fic. The whole album, really.  
> and HI. Hello there. I wanted to put this out sooner but I needed to edit and my days were really hard. I was so tired. This one is a little long, but filled with love. I hope everyone is doing well and liking the fic. Sometimes I wonder if the quality/writing/storytelling is wearing down through the chapters and it makes me a little insecure. It's stressful sometimes. I want to be a good writer. Love love love to all.

Winter solstice is as boring and awkward as Nesta had predicted, but she is pleased enough.

Because when that cold morning finally comes, she already has all of her gifts gathered and wrapped; as simple and harmless as they all are. It had been so easy to pick them out, when she had woken up in such a good mood in the following days. And they were all good throughout; Nesta had spent some hours in the library, then some with her sisters, with Amren, and so many with Cassian; either ranting to each other about something or comfortably quiet. 

She smiled, free and pleased, and felt so much like herself.

Feyre was beaming in the kitchen when she got downstairs. Elain was covered in flour, surrounded by bread and cookies, and both of her younger sisters just seemed so well, Nesta couldn't help but smile back at them.

However small it was.

"Happy birthday, Feyre." She tries, moving forward to take a cookie from the counter.

"Thank you." Feyre replied, voice strange, eyes lost in thought as if shocked. Hadn't realized that her older sister would remember. "You're going to the library today?" Her eyes seemed to drop a little when she takes note of Nesta's usual attire, but then snapped back up with some bite. "It's solstice. Are they even going to open?"

"They are, I checked. I'm just going to drop this." Nesta shrugged one shoulder, trying to indicate the bag with her small gifts. The lanterns; all wrapped and named for all of the females in the library. "Then I'll come back, get inside my bedroom and hide for the rest of day."

Nesta smiles wide at that, knowing full well that the desire was strange: hiding in isolation was the opposite of what people did to celebrate anything. Maybe her idea of a holiday wasn't exactly ideal, since humans didn't have any, but she didn't care. Nesta had never been someone fun to be around; she had no desire to make conversation, didn't find amusement easy. It was for the best to stay out of everyone's way, let them celebrate their night however it was supposed to go in peace.

After everything, she had become something like a master of staying pitifully alone inside her bedroom. In fact, Nesta had done so for months on end; a couple of hours for the winter solstice (and her sister's birthday) surely wouldn't kill her.

If Feyre had any more objections - and she clearly did - she did not voice them, and Elain waved with an awkward smile as she turned and left.

The streets of Velaris were practically empty, citizens ushered inside by both the cold and their celebrations. The void alleys and corners were filled with the echoes of the voices coming from inside the houses, laughter and banter and playful shriek. Loving tones, declarations. Big fires everywhere; Nesta hated, hated them. The sounds of wood snapping at breaking point traveled in the air from all places and it made her regret leaving the house at all. But she fought to block it out, trying to focus on the things that she did like.

For one, how adorable it was when snow piled on top of very tall signs; the smell of pine, brown sugar and ginger; the whistling wind; the morning dew kissing every surface of glass and metal in sight. There aren't that many things to count, and soon enough, her footsteps become heavier with every crossed street. Something strange and yet so familiar sits at the pit of her stomach.

If not by the priestess', the library was mostly empty as well, which made it easy for her to walk around and find them. She didn't speak much; barely said anything at all, but the other females weren't so awkward about it. It was some unspoken fact about that place; that neither of them were very good at speaking their minds or interested in stretched out interactions. Nesta was happy to leave, so weirded out about something unseen she couldn't quite name. And when the final lantern had been handed, she walked back home so fast, someone would have said that she was running.

If not for Elain, the house would have been entirely empty when she did return. She has absolutely no idea of where everyone else might have gone off to, but she decides against asking her sister, who already seems upset about something as she fixes yet another sugary thing in the kitchen.

Nesta finds her way back to her bedroom, cold and quiet, and it doesn't take much for her to be back in bed. No books in hands. No nothing. She slips out of her grey coat, shrugs a nightgown back on and slides inside the fresh covers. Storm-full grey eyes closed, absolutely devoid of exhaustion or sleep, and allows her body to sink in it's nameless pain.

For someone so lost in time and space, she was sure as hell good at being stuck.

What was her life anymore? Nesta can't remember any goals, any plans. Not even the ones from when she was mortal; those seemed to evade her memory altogether and even then, she knew they were hardly even passable anymore. She hadn't made any plans or dreamed of anything after coming out of the cauldron. Sure, she had wanted things: to end the war, kill the king of Hybern, keep the humans safe. But those were short-term actions, which were now achieved and forgotten. What else was she supposed to do? Nesta didn't want anything. She didn't want material things, didn't wish to become something more. Her powers were so hard to keep at bay as things were, even though she had learned more about controlling currents - Nesta had no interest in finding out what the the icy fury dancing under her skin would bloom into.

Nowadays, she was either distracted with a new book or wishing to cease existence altogether.

Though  _ one _ of those was certainly long-term, death didn't really seem like a valid life plan to make. Not when she  _ knows _ there are things about the world that make living seem worth it. It's just - those are never long lasting and usually just make her feel worse when it's over.

Cassian would be leaving soon. It's inevitable and limitless;  _ who knows, _ he might be coped up across the court for the next century, perhaps for the rest of his life. And what was she supposed to do? Run through every shelf in that damned library while hoping for his occasional visits? How often would he even come? Three, four times every fucking year? Would this be her life? An eternity of suffering for a male she can't even have? Cassian, who she barely even got a chance to  _ have, _ gone into a different life entirely. Cassian, who had spent at least fifty years straight inside that city, but left just now that she had come.

In another time, spending the rest of her life alone inside a gigantic library would have sounded like a beautiful, angelic dream. Something plucked out of a child's imagination, pure and pristine; something she'd be unworthy of. Now, the more Nesta thinks about it, the more it feels like suffocating doom.

There was only one thing she wanted. One thing she cared about; the rest of the world, her included, didn't mean much; but there was  _ one _ thing -

Like promised, Nesta spends the entire day alone, locked inside her bedroom and sinking harder into the mattress. There's a swift headache lightly dancing right above her brow, and her eyes become heavy, heavy and heavy as she thinks and thinks.

The house isn't back to it's general activity until noon. She hears laughter echoing within those hard walls again; Cassian's, mostly. It makes her heartbeat spike, her pursued lips smiling a little. She hears them talk, mostly bickering and teasing, which only takes so long until they start to disperse inside the house, spreading to different rooms; and Cassian is coming for her, she realizes.

Nesta is already looking at the door when it is carefully pushed open, and Cassian steps inside.

There's something strange on his face; besides the pinkish extremities, as if he had spent some time in the cold; but that's not it. She tries harder, brow furrowing a little, and soon realizes that the dark shadow over his face is some sort of apprehension.

Because after everything, Nesta was once again in bed, wearing a nightgown despite the hours, face clear and eyes a little lost. Granted; she  _ did _ look so much better. A month had passed; her body was nowhere near full, but she had managed to pull a little weight in. Her hair was shinier, face becoming softer after a few good meals. The skin was smoother over her bones, muscles thicker after the daily walks back and forth from the library.

Her eyes were alert; she was awake.

But after seeing the way Cassian approached her, sadness in his eyes, Nesta realized what she hadn't before.

This was a bad day.

Yes, she had accomplished a few goals and the last days had been amazing, yes, smiles came easier nowadays, yes, she was happy for her sisters, yes, Cassian's laugh made things flip inside her body; but still, it was not a good day. There was something bad, something wrong pushing against her shoulders, and she just wanted to lie down for a little bit.

_ Oh. _

"Hi." Cassian sat on the bed, calm, soft. There was no disappointment to be detected, to which Nesta was grateful. She had no space to manage shame on top of everything. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"

Cassian smiles a little, despite the apprehension, and Nesta allows herself to breathe out.

_ Not very well, _ she thinks, and he seems to know. Nesta is not sure of what to say, how to explain herself. Technically speaking, there's no real explanation for her dark mood; her  _ bad day _ was technically unfounded. Because she had all the reasons to be happy, apparently, but Nesta couldn't help but feel a little miserable.

So she says nothing. It hurts them both, of course, but she doesn't have a thing to say.

Nesta wouldn't back down without a little fight, though.  _ She's there, awake. _ And she'll show a little control, as exhaustive as it might be; so under the covers, she moves to the other side of the bed, making space for him, and then playfully pats the space where she had been lying down before.

_ Lay with me? _

Cassian doesn't hesitate one second before taking off his boots, slipping under the covers with her. The mattress shifts with the new weight, and it does pulls her closer to him; though there is no lying they were also consciously inching closer to each other. Sharing a blanket with him, who's so big, means there's only so much left for her - and after rising to her elbows to check, Nesta notes that Cassian did not keep his wings under the covers. He smiles with her obvious curiosity, lazily adjusting her pillow under his head; and Nesta throws her head back in laughter with the sight.

"You are so laid back!"

"Me?!" Cassian almost shouts, face taken by mock outrage; a smile in every corner of his face.

Nesta takes him in with narrowed eyes; lying comfortably on her side of the bed, tucked under her blankets (while taking most of them to himself) and oh so naturally using her pillow, unbothered, not a care in the world. As if this had been  _ his _ bedroom all along. But she is entirely incapable of even feeling offended; it warms her heart instead, a smile digs itself into her face.

"I'll let this pass for now." She murmurs, reaching out to take another pillow for herself; one that she didn't use much and had been out of his lazy reach.

They face each other when she lies back down, both strangely content, and Nesta can barely remember why she had been so miserable before. Of course; some part of her remembers, but dwelling on it seems pointless. She can't waste time where Cassian is concerned; he'll soon be gone, and then when that happens, she'll have all the time in the world to be miserable alone.

For now, she can focus on the good things. His warmth, his scent, his steady presence.

"Are we having an afternoon nap?" Cassian gives her a cheeky smile, outstretching and arm that comes to rest over her waist. The new weight, warm and soft, is incredibly welcome, and it helps grounding her back to reality.

"Afternoon? The sun is already setting, you moron." Nesta shakes her head, but she moves closer into his embrace anyway.

"Oh, we  _ are." _ He teases, getting a better hold of her body, moving a hand to caress her back.

They say nothing more and Nesta is happy to close her eyes. With her face so close to his warm chest; hands pressed to him, it's inevitable to fall and rest. Even though  _ now _ she wants to stay awake; to watch his face, feel his body, to keep teasing each other, to use all of his attention for as long as it will last. But she can't keep her eyes open; as they lie together, Nesta is overridden by peace.

And they have that stupid  _ sunset _ nap.

.

Neither of them wake up until there's noise downstairs. 

Their guests for the winter solstice have arrived - likely Amren with a very awkward Varian in arms - and Cassian and Nesta are still tangled under the covers, faces swollen and limbs heavy above the mattress. 

And they  _ do _ wake up; the two of them are conscious, but neither moves an inch. In fact, they don't even bother to open their eyes, mutually agreeing to pretend to still be asleep. It's a nice arrangement: being so close, so comfortable, laced in each other's warmth. Their mixed scent is the most alluring, tranquilizing thing; Cassian, the male, is taken by it like it's a drug. Nesta, cozy inside his hold, feels as if she's made out of butter.

And awake, conscious, they stay still for a little longer, trying to drag the moment out.

"Do you think they'll notice if we never go downstairs?" Cassian's voice is hoarse, thick with sleep, as he still presses his face to her hair with eyes closed.

Nesta almost smiles at that.

"They will." She murmurs back, her own voice near intelligible.

Maybe if she were alone; after months of doing precisely just that, no one would notice if she kept to herself inside her bedroom. But not Cassian; they were likely theorizing about his whereabouts already -  _ scratch that, _ they definitely knew where the illyrian was, and were now just tapping their feet on the floor, waiting for him to come out. And Nesta would rather throw herself through the window before getting in between him and his family; couldn't stand the feeling that she was an overbearing shadow cast above their happiness.

"Do I have to dress up?" She breathes out, deflating a little.

"What?" Cassian leans back to watch her face, then, genuinely confused. "Did you mean to go downstairs on your nightgown?"

"How can you be both so smart and so fucking stupid." Nesta mumbles under her breath; and it's not a question at all, despite the way it's phrased. And somehow, the offense is so filled with love, Cassian's only response is to laugh into her head. "I meant. Do I have to look pretty?"

"Ha. But aren't you always?"

"Very funny." She pushes out of his arms, humour starting to fade as she sits to watch the closet doors.

Beauty, pretty, dazzling, charming, tidy, good. It was such a struggle; and it made things turn inside her stomach the longer she thought about it. The bitter certainty that no matter how hard she tried, Nesta would still look like the strangest, most ill-fitted, awkward thing about whatever place she stood on. Like a puzzle piece that wouldn't fit; she was either too big or too small; dresses all looked strange as they hung from her shoulders, loose around her waist where they should be fit; feet aching in shoes she no longer could manage to stand on. Too dry, unruly hair that never looked right, no matter how she twisted the sickly opaque tresses into careful braids.

And her face; her skin always looked strange, there were always these shadows pestering places they had no business being on.

"It's a holiday. We're inclined towards making ourselves a little more presentable." Cassian sits up as well, either noticing her discomfort or wanting to get her back into his arms. Possibly both. "But it doesn't really matter. It's just us, in the end. I usually don't make a big deal out of it."

She knows he doesn't. It's Cassian: who's always finding a way to throw some leathers in, regardless of the occasion. Today, when he had come with wet hair, possibly out of a bath, Nesta had seen him entirely out of those for the first time. Pants and a shirt of soft fabric, warm and comfortable. Perfect to fall in bed with her -

But that's Cassian, who's perfect and healthy and beautiful and everyone loves. Who does not need to make an effort, regardless of what.

"I need to bathe."

"Doesn't sound like an invitation." He murmurs, studying her with narrowed eyes.

And she wants to bark. To snap and push and lock herself inside a chest; to be thrown deep inside the ocean, lost and forgotten like a pirate treasure.

_ No,  _ for fucks sake, this is  _ not _ a good day, for whatever damned reason.

"It is not." Nesta manages to bite down her bark, though she does not make a good job at disguising the bad humor.

If only there wasn't a party downstairs; if only they could stay in bed.

Cassian isn't a fool; he sees right through her poor filter, the sudden anger that came out of nowhere.  _ Nowhere was somewhere, _ he knows, something that had just come up in her mind and had started to irk her skin out of their shared peace. But he doesn't push; isn't sure if it's the right thing to do at the moment. So he makes to leave; not before leaving a kiss to her shoulder, and the lost look he gets from her grey eyes is all he needs to know that it had been the right choice.

"I'll go fix myself too." His feet touch the floor and he stands, lazily stretching his arms upwards and his wings over the bed. "I'm waiting for you downstairs, sweetheart."

Which was also the right thing to say, because maybe if he hadn't, Nesta wouldn't have bothered to go at all.

She does lie back down after he leaves, wanting to both scream herself hoarse and cry; but she can't really do that in a house full of fae that can catch the way someone's breath hitches across the property. So as bitter as it makes her feel, Nesta forces herself out of bed and towards the bathroom - undresses so fast, she almost trips over her own feet, and doesn't bother to turn the hot water on before stepping into the bathtub.

She bathes with cold water, as pitifully shallow as it has to be in order for her not to freak out. It works right with the strange cold sweat and her skin prickles as she washes herself; for whatever reason, it felt nice rather than panicking. And not feeling any form of rush, Nesta also washes her hair, rubbing her scalp with the transparent soap that smells like lemon and green tea, then peppering the long tresses with oils that smell sweet. And after she tries to dry herself up, naked before the rectangular bathroom mirror, she runs her fingers through her hair again, trying to figure out what to do with it.

It was just so unruly. The longer time passed and it grew, the ends became horrible, dry and broken, whereas the roots easily became oily with sweat and dust. It was confusing: not straight enough, not curly enough. After years of being twisted into braids, her hair seemed to fall into short waves that were either exquisite or hideous. And the ends; so dry, she wanted to burn them out.

_ Ha. _

This was surely a bad day for anything that decided to get in Nesta's way.

With determination snapping at her fingertips, Nesta grabs a comb and a pair of scissors from the first drawer, and with hands as steady as they always were, she trims her hair. A good six inches of dry ends fall into the sink and by the time she's done, there's a new bounce to her hair, lighter in the way it falls over her face, and she's entirely overjoyed with herself,  _ finally, _ for once.

None of her dresses truly fit. Even the newer ones that Feyre had bought, especially because she hadn't tried them on at all, were strange in the way they clung to her body, but she resigned to one. A long sleeved light grey dress, plain and simple, that clung close enough to her waist, but fell wider over her legs. Good to hide her still too thin legs; pretty on her shoulders, fit nice around her breasts. She didn't brush her hair; didn't want to mess with the pretty waves it had, and left her bedroom with one last look into the mirror.

She didn't look beautiful like Feyre, delicate like Elain, sensual like the Morrigan, confident like Amren.

Maybe somewhere in the past, she had been all of those things embodied; maybe she can still be - but right now, after all the crumbling and free falling, she isn't. But still… Nesta Archeron is exquisite. She knows, relieved with the understanding, that absolutely nothing could take away the artistry to which she had been made.

The way her eyelids shone bright above her eyes, the steely grey of thunderstorms; how her dark eyebrows and tall cheeks drew her face like an art piece, how beautiful were her full lips. And her body, as thin and frail as it still was, painfully forged in the cold waters of the cauldron. The curves of her waist, her hips; the full breasts heaving from her chest, the tall neck over delicate shoulders. She's growing back in place.

Maybe not yet beautiful, not yet a fawn, a sensual mistress, a confident female; but hell, if she wasn't getting back there.

Nesta was unquestionably exquisite, despite all.

The living room smells of sugar, butter, pine and well seasoned meat that makes her mouth water. There's also a little tinge of wine, as it's placed in everyone's hands; and Nesta sees herself thinking that maybe she'll drink some too. Maybe she can sit still and quiet with a little wine, make herself so invisible that they won't even notice her presence after a while.

The plan is harder to follow through than what she had predicted.

Of course: the beginning was ideal. She sat by Elain's side on the couch, avoided everyone's looks and then kept staring into the nothing until they were too bored to care anymore. Cassian himself was pushed down into the couch in front of her, sitting in between Morrigan and Azriel; hands busy with food and wine and distracted with someone's story. Nesta didn't bother to hear. She let herself sink deeper, eyes glazing over until she could barely see anything in front of her face.

She was bored. Winter solstice was insufferable. It was awkward and annoying.

Maybe if she were someone else; maybe she could have had fun. Maybe if this had been a good day, she would have been watching them with amused narrowed eyes instead of glazed, hooded ones. And minutes dragged themselves for so long when she wanted them to pass. Because some part of her, conscious, was counting seconds as they passed and prayed for the end of that night.

In fact, Nesta had even started to debate moving back upstairs quietly -

"That's enough of you. I need to eat now." It's Feyre who says it, but she hadn't paid enough attention to know who it had been directed to. "Come on. Let's have dinner."

And when they all get up, moving towards the dining room; as Nesta starts considering turning around and leaving while they're distracted, a hand finds it's way around hers - and she doesn't look up to know who it belongs to. Nesta knew enough.

"What's wrong?" Cassian's voice is low to her ear; and he's so close, his body is almost pressed against hers. It's a good thing, because she can inhale his scent without trying too hard, and it had a calming effect on her. Always did. But then, she could also scent the wine on his breath and Morrigan's sweet perfume, from where they had been sitting so close in the couch.

One thing rules the other out.

And the problem with his question is that  _ technically, _ nothing is. At the same time, something is wrong; something dark and insufferable poisoning every angle of every thought and vision she had experienced of the damned day. Nesta is almost melting, close to fuming - 

But why? There's no answer to that.

"Nothing."

"Come on, you can do better than that." Cassian murmurs, his chest vibrating on her shoulder, and Nesta isn't sure if that was pushing or encouraging.

_ " _ Cassian, I _ can't." _

It's not exactly a whisper, but her voice breaks so bad, that's what it sounds like. And that answer, as short as it was, holds a wide range of meanings; they both know it. And Cassian is thankful for it; both for her honesty and to know that she trusts him enough to share a little truth. To admit she's uncomfortable, to let him in.

"It's ok." He nods for her, hazel eyes calm and understanding when she looks into them for the first time since kicking him out of her bedroom. Cassian kisses her head again, a warm hand placed over the other side of her face, and Nesta breathes out in relief. "I know. You want to go back to your room, don't you?"

_ Yes! _ It's all she wants. Seems to be the only thing she needs, too, but Nesta doesn't consider the option for too long, after it comes her way. Elain had spent the entire day in the kitchen, trying to put that meal together; and it also seemed wrong to sour Cassian's good mood with her unexplained brooding. Besides, other than that one buttery cookie she had snatched from the counter in the morning, Nesta hadn't eaten a thing the whole day.

Maybe he knew that as well - maybe he didn't. Maybe Cassian honestly just wanted her company, though not a single cell of hers can come to understand why.

"It's ok." She shakes her head, eyes moving to the floor, and gives his hand a light squeeze to lend him some peace. Assurance, though she's not sure what for. "Let's go."

Cassian doesn't let go of her hand and she doesn't feel like dropping him either, so holding hands, the two of them walk further into the house, following their friends' laughter until the dining room - and they ignore the curt curious looks that come their way when they walk in. Or the awkward moment where Azriel moves from his chair so that they can sit together. That one is hard to look past, but they swallow down the awkwardness with ease. Well, mostly Nesta, since Cassian looks like he could not care any less. And in the strangeness of the past confusing months they've all lived, everyone seemed to be asking themselves the very same question as they piled food over their plates.

_ Are they a couple? _

When Nesta was human, it took a little courting before a real relationship started, and it was usually the men who took the lead. Being as poor as they were in the time she was "engaged" to Thomas, there was no such thing as a ring or an actual engagement. Usually, poor couples just stuck for long enough until they eventually started to live together and had children - that was more or less what awaited her back then. Now, when money was involved, there was courting, a engagement that usually lasted a year (along with a nice wedding ring), and then a marriage ceremony officiated by some religious entity.

Rich brides were also expected to be innocent virgins who'd gasp when their newly made husband's cock tore through them.

After getting their riches back, however fake it all seemed, Nesta had decided that she would never again take another man. She didn't want sex, didn't want love, didn't want children; didn't want to become a rich man's trophy. A pretty plaything to stay home with his offspring and then to open her legs wide whenever he came back home. A rich woman - as filthy rich as she was, had no reason to worry about security, especially considering that their father had no male heir and on top of all that, Nesta was also the eldest.

In that time, she had resigned to be the scary aunt to Elain's sweet children, whenever they came. She would be happy to continue her father's work, to spend her days free, to explore the world a little bit.

But that was…

Well. That was a another lifetime altogether. No longer a woman, no longer a merchant's daughter, no longer human. Now, her life might reportedly stretch into centuries until someone assassinated her; now, all of her shallow human life plans had been snatched away from her and something else would have to take place.

Now, despite whatever Nesta had tried to reason with herself, her body and soul had chosen to love this warrior fae male so fiercely, she couldn't stand to think of a life without him. 

Nesta had laid her life for the bastard; and there was a bloody crowd that came from all the edges of the world  _ watching. _

And even though it was followed by months of sick, painful nothing, she feels as if absolutely nothing had changed in the way her heart heaved for him. Though sometimes she wondered if he had given up; if Cassian was out in the world, had forgotten her entirely, if he took other females - and maybe he really did. Still, she loved, loved him. That stupid narrow-eyed bastard, however hard or long it would take, Nesta wanted him.

And are they a couple?

Nesta has absolutely no idea, but that's what she wants regardless.

Her shoulders fall as she eats; it's not sadness, but relief instead. Nothing makes Nesta feel better than reaching to conclusions.

Dinner is as good as it smells, though maybe Elain still ought to get around the way the fae seasoned their food. Humans didn't even had this much spice, vegetables, grains, meat. As hard as she tried, it would take a little longer for her younger sister to perfect the skill, but the dinner still tasted heavenly - and the practical help she got from Nuala and Cerridwen certainly played a part in it. 

"Did you cut your hair?"

It's Morrigan who asks, careful and stiff, as if waiting for whatever bark she might let out. It's not unfunded, of course; Nesta hadn't been the most friendly when they first met, though the unprompted vicious bite was a mutual thing that went back and forth in between the two of them. The blonde fae was no innocent thing and Nesta would absolutely not treat her as such.

But she has no reason to bite; and is certainly too tired to entertain this type of spectacle.

"Do you like it?"

But hell, if she isn't going to have a little fun with it.

The female sitting in front of her freezes, speechless and wide eyed, while the rest of the table seem to hold their breath - and no one moves an inch, not even Rhysand, who had ceased movement altogether with a full mouth of spicy meat. She can feel their eyes shifting in between the two of them; in fact, she can almost hear them trying to come up with a way to intervene.

Nesta's words, while seemingly harmless, were delivered with a expressionless coldness that implied a little provocation. She either assumed that Morrigan's commentary was malicious or had wanted to start the fight herself.

And it was hilarious, the way they sat uncomfortably stiff, looking in between one another with slightly angled brows as if shooting questions back and forth -

Nesta had to laugh.

And after a second of confusion, it hit them as well.

"That was good." Amren muses, Varian still very pale by her side. 

"Thank you." Nesta tries to stifle a smile, hiding it by taking a sip of wine; though she knows everyone can see how every angle of her face come alight. She turns to Morrigan, then, trying to give her a little reassuring smile. "I tried to trim the dry ends. Looks better now."

"It's bouncy." Cassian nods, eyes focused on her loose hair with innocent seriousness, and Nesta can't help but remember what Morrigan had once said about his inability to compliment females. This might be the best he can do, and Nesta takes it to heart with honest adoration. "And  _ wavy." _

"Thank you, Cassian." There's laughter on her voice; and some of them laugh with her when his face becomes pink.

Dinner is easy and goes by quite quickly. They're soon back in the sitting room, trading gifts while drinking even more wine and eating dessert - and maybe because she had drank some wine herself, Nesta is feeling a little better than before. It's easier to get amused.

Besides, wine usually goes straight to her -

Well.

There were people in the room who could hear thoughts, Nesta remembers, so she slams a hard wall into her mind, letting it go entirely. It's hard, though, because now she's a little warm, a little happy, and very cozy sitting by Cassian's side on the couch. He doesn't touch her thighs, this time around, which would have been a strange thing to do in front of everyone. The inner circle had barely assimilated the two of then holding hands, for one. Still, his arm comes around her shoulders, a warm hand resting over her arm as they lean back, and Nesta is perfectly contented again.

And she watches, heart spiking with a little adrenaline, when Rhysand crouches down to take the present she had gotten for him. It's small, fits at the center of his palm as he opens the blue box. He takes it out, eyeing the alien round object with confusion; and finally realizes there's a lid, which he pulls open to find - Rhysand's eyebrows shoot up as he stares into his own eyes.

A mirror. Small enough that he could keep it in his pocket; but that's hardly the gift. It's the box, when he looks into it again, perhaps to identify the remitter, that Rhysand sees what she had written at the bottom.

_ So that you remember that you're no longer the prettiest family member. _

And without missing a beat, he looks straight at Nesta, narrowed eyes as if he had caught her in the middle of a bad deed; and then laughs.

Nesta  _ did _ have a sense of humor. It was just a little dark.

She had gotten Feyre some pencils to go with the book; her sister accepts it with a shy smile. For Elain, she had bought boots for gardening. And from them, she gets some romance books and a scarf; there's also an unopened box from Rhysand that she refuses to open just to piss him off. Cassian thinks it's hilarious - and goes along with her joke, proposing they dispose of it on the Sidra after their High Lord goes to bed.

It's a running joke until they start to disperse; Amren and Varian go back to her apartment - probably to fuck - and then Feyre and Rhysand leave in mischievous secrecy - probably to fuck as well. There's no mystery with those two. Elain also retreats after a while; she already had stretched out of her usual early sleeping schedule.

And then, before they have to watch anyone else leave, Cassian nudges her shoulder with his nose -  _ he's so much like a dog.  _ Nesta stifles her laughter and meets his eyes, amused with her own joke, and he gives her a feral grin; that one where it always seems like he knows what she's thinking.

Azriel and Morrigan start regretting not leaving sooner, because neither wants to see what happens when those two face each other wine drunk. Morrigan might scream if they kiss; and hell, if they don't look like they're about to.

"Come walk with me." Cassian purs, leaning his forehead into her temple, and his eyes are so devilishly mischievous.

The part of her that doesn't like doing things  _ just _ for the sake of doing them, feels like contesting. Besides, it will be so fucking cold outside. But.

Why the hell not?

"I need to grab my coat upstairs."

Cassian is out of the couch in a second, pulling her up so that they both can go get their coats to leave the house - and they do wave goodbye to a very awkward Azriel and a visibly uncomfortable Morrigan before crossing the doorstep into the cold.

Nesta does not linger on the topic, whatever it is supposed to be. She has no actual idea of what  _ exactly _ was the deal with those three and never got close to asking around, though she did have a pretty good idea.  _ Maybe _ it would be her problem to deal with someday, if she was going to be with Cassian and the illyrian was somehow entangled with the two of them. Nesta would not give a damn if anyone called her a prude boring human, she would  _ not _ share her male with anyone else. And she did not like to leave loose ends either.

But… Today is not the day.

Cassian's gift, small as it was, weighed like a block of marble on her coat pocket. She had never done this before. Isn't quite sure of how exactly it should be done or precisely how ridiculous she'll feel after giving it to him - she's certainly nervous enough as it is.

His gloved hand, clad by black leather, is a grounding support that she relies on gladly. She would not admit to be cold either; after all, it was Nesta's stubborn choice not to wear any leather or fur. Wool, cotton, yarn; they were functional enough, but weren't really good enough to keep her warm. In a place like the Night Court, right in the middle of the winter solstice, she would need a little more than knitted gloves and a wool coat to make it through the frozen Sidra, but Nesta would surely try.

"Why?"

The few pale fairy lights are stark against the dark streets, barely illuminating a thing. All good it did was reflect on the wet ground, so they knew not to step on the puddles, but the City of Starlight was, for once, shadowy and dark. All light was kept inside the homes, where the families celebrated the holiday that Nesta still did not understand.

It seemed to be a regular day like any other, but for whatever reason, they had to dress up and trade gifts in the living room. Dinner was also slightly fancier and they drank more than usual - but again, those were things they could have decided to do in any other day.

Despite his own anxiety, Cassian smiles wide. "I wanted to give you your gift." And with hands close to shaking, he takes a small box from his coat pocket.

Nesta stops walking, somehow surprised by it.

It was a cold holiday for trading gifts. She had gotten one for him as well - why was it that much of a surprise? Maybe because some part of her couldn't get around the idea of someone; least of all him, taking time to get her something.  _ Sure,  _ her sisters had, but that was a different situation entirely.

"I brought yours too." Nesta breathes out, taking her own small box from her coat. She pushes the thing forward, presented in an awkward hold in between her hands, and she's close to cringing.

Is this what awaited her?

An eternity of wanting to die whenever she gave Cassian his winter solstice gift every year?

And the illyrian seems to be just as surprised as she had been, hazel eyes wide as he stared into the small box in her hands.

_ This is awful.  _ Nesta wants to jump into the Sidra, to throw the box to the sky and run; she can't take this torture anymore. It's terrible. Winter solstice is horrible. She hates it.

"Just take it already." She's desperate, close to panicking, and Cassian has no other option but to do it when she pushes the box into his chest.

The bastard smiles; he's awkward, clearly just as nervous as her, but he smiles anyways and it helps ease some peace into her tight chest.  _ Now _ he just needs to open the box so that she can go back home and hide inside her bedroom for the rest of the year, trying to erase this nightmare from her mind. It's awful. Solstice, it's awful.

Nesta feels close to puking when Cassian opens the box, eyes adjusting to see his gift in the dark. And his voice is strange when he speaks again; either too thick or too light. She's too nervous to be able to tell things apart.

"A compass."

Cassian pulls the round silvery thing out, the compass attached to a chain, like a necklace, and stares into the wind rose with his mouth open.

"It's for practical purposes." Nesta tries to explain, holding her hands so tightly the bones might break. "I thought… I wanted…" The words catch on her throat, and she wants to slap herself like her mother would have done. She's a grown woman - or  _ female, _ and she must know how to speak as such. Nesta is no stupid child, she knows better than this. And with a deep breath, it goes. "I wanted you to remember to come back to me."

Cassian would have been better off with a kick to the balls.

She saw the way his hand shook, the silver compass shimmering on the dark street as it threatened to fall. And his eyes - wide and electrified, as if lightning had fallen over his head. Cassian couldn't be deemed frozen because he shook, swaying on his feet like a pendant before fall, and his mouth; his jaw trembled as if he was either about to cry or couldn't figure out what to say. And his heart beats so fast, Nesta can hear it's drums coming together with hers, wild and desperate, the loudest thing in the entire city - it's a sound that swallows everything down, makes it seem as if the world is about to end.

Besides the feeling of the wind cutting around their bodies, the cold disappears altogether. Some truth, love and vulnerability; it's all it takes to make the coldest night of the year hot. And taking her gloves off, Nesta clutches her hands even harder, readying herself to walk away. There were no words to describe the way her heart was about to come undone if this was rejection coming her way, but she fixes her feet on the floor regardless, fighting against the wind to stand still.

"I see." It's a quiet whisper carried her way, that seeps into her soul and calms her insides where she stands. "It's… I don't need a reminder. I'll never forget."

_ "Oh." _ Nesta feels her throat closing up, thick with the somewhat unfamiliar feeling that there were some tears brewing on her waterline. She's hardly aware of what to feel, what to do, what to say. To be even more accurate, she hardly even knows what's going on anymore. Some part of her understands:  _ this is not rejection, _ but the opposite of rejection has to be acceptance and so far in her life, Nesta has absolutely no experience in that topic. She doesn't know what to do with love, attention, feelings. And Cassian's; who she would care for the most, Nesta knows that he only deserves the best.

Cassian deserves the world - or perhaps a little more than a sick female, numb and cold, a worthless bitch lost in time.

It makes absolutely no sense.

_ Fuck solstice. _

"Thank you, Nesta." The illyrian whispers again, strange, and he's crying.

Nesta realizes this when Cassian looks up again and the fairy lights illuminate the tears falling over his brown cheeks like it did with the puddles on the floor. It tightens her chest hard, so painfully hard, Nesta truly thinks she might be about to die. He breaks and she can't take it; the hopelessness that comes from Cassian laying himself bare for her in the same way she did for him.

Nesta cries; for many reasons, she cries. For things she hadn't bothered to cry for in years, months; she lets them come and fall like those were feelings from seconds ago. And in a way, they were: she had never disposed of any of them, and those things heaved in her chest, poisoned her lungs with every breath. She still cries for every feeling, all the hues of every choked memory, that rain down on her shoulders like a restless storm. Nesta cries because for whatever reason, it feels as if she's allowed to do so.

There's something strange soaring at her ears - and then, there's a box in her hands. Cassian's solstice gift for her.

"You still need to see yours." He laughs, a breathless thing, and drags his gloved hands over his eyes to wipe the tears away and then - hers, also. Carefully and lovingly, his thumbs move under her eyes and then her over cheeks; his sweet gesture only makes her want to cry harder, but Nesta holds it in.

Her solstice gift. The box; and whatever is inside, a reflection of his feelings. Not the object, but precisely on the act; and maybe  _ this _ is what winter solstice is about.

_ Stupid fucking holiday, _ Nesta laughs, and opens her gift.

  
  



	6. a good man in a storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. IT'S THE END OF THIS. Like I've said before, it was just supposed to be a harmless acotar rewrite. I made it softer, if you will.  
> I have much love and appreciation for everybody who followed this story and showed me so much love!!!! You're all my babies.   
> I reread this like three times already, it might be the time to let go. Most of it is sex, by the way, so I'm sorry if it gets awkward. I'm not the best writing smut.  
> Well. Thank you everybody! Hope you like it!

They fly over the darkened city, Cassian gliding over a strong air current despite the biting chill on his sensitive wings. Nesta presses her face to his shoulder, trying to protect herself from the wind; and though her eyes are closed, she can tell that they are coming higher on the sky, far away from the Sidra, the city's snow coated ceilings. His hold is firm: she can't fall, won't be let down, and Nesta trusts him with whatever awaits.

The House of Wind, that stark monster looking over the city, is familiar enough to her. They land in the balcony to her old bedroom; Nesta doesn't have to look around to know that not a thing had changed. None of the objects she had left behind had been moved, furniture was positioned just the same - hell, it still smelled like her inside.

But she doesn't check, doesn't look twice. Her eyes are locked on his, hazel that burns like ember, freckled with green, honey and silver. Shining, digging into her like they can see under her skin - Cassian is a devil, a god and a saint. He's destruction, creation and salvation; he's everything - he's everything, his lips meet hers - and he's the only thing.

The last time they kissed was a shame. It was miserable and simply not enough, it was barely a proper goodbye. It hardly even served it's sorrowful purpose and the moment was never theirs. And when they kiss now, standing tall, alive and whole - there's a reason people survive. They get through fights and go on with their lives; there's a reason people survive, and it's precisely for the peaceful feeling of coming home. Even though Nesta had never been there before, that's the unknown feeling that she discovers in his lips.

Her hands come to each side of his waist, bringing him closer, and Cassian holds her face, her neck, her hair. They're both desperate for each other; not in the way their bodies move, but in the way it feels like the world is about to end. Like unless every inch of their bodies touch, it's simply not close enough. Still, despite all the hunger in the world stored in one male, Cassian is so ridiculously gentle with her.

Maybe centuries of fighting and fucking had taught him how to use his body delicately; Nesta doesn't want to think about it. But she appreciates his touch, that is both so firm and gentle, how confident it makes her feel against him.

Cassian would never hurt her - she doesn't think about it at all. His kiss, his touch; feels both like calm love and white-flamed passion, it's steady and wild, gentle and free. There's no danger, no piece of her disagrees with what they're doing and -

Sure, they're just kissing, but  _ they might as well. _

Nesta is a free female and she owns herself. Sometimes she's afraid of bathtubs, of sleeping in the dark, of leaving her doors unlocked; but nothing in the world could possibly make her fear Cassian and whatever way he had to show her love.

So be it. She's a grown female. Nesta has no owners. She  _ wants _ him - that's why they're here.

They break the kiss, unhurried despite the desperation, and Nesta can't help but smile at the way Cassian gasps, entirely gone on her arms. And there's just so much adoration on his eyes, in the way they light up despite the dark - they hadn't even bothered to turn the lights on before coming in. It hurts inside her heart, tight like it might burst, but from contentment rather than suffering. It's a strange feeling she hadn't experienced before.

And there's just  _ so _ much.

What do you say to someone who can change the way your entire day goes with a single smile? How the way their breath hitches makes your chest tight, how you can't breathe until you know they're fine; how seeing them in peace feels like a happy ending.

What are you supposed to say?

Nesta isn't sure if  _ 'I love you'  _ is nearly enough declaration. It would never quite be. And she isn't sure if an infinity of actions stretched into the end of times would be enough either. She just feels  _ so much. _

"I know." Cassian nods, words swallowed in between his heavy breaths, and she swears his mind is visible through his eyes. They  _ are _ thinking just the same.  _ "Nesta." _

It's not her name at all.  _ Nesta, _ it is said like a prayer, a calling of the winds, a forbidden profanity.  _ Nesta, _ Cassian says it as if the word is a synonym for both  _ need _ and  _ salvation,  _ and something about the way she breaks - about how something unknown snaps before her eyes, she believes him.

She rises to her tiptoes again, kisses him with a full chest of unearthed emotions dusted over her lips - and found a thunderstorm equivalent in his. Nesta hopes, hopes, hopes, that he can see, feel, or hopefully even get a glimpse of what is happening inside her chest. Because she can feel his, clear like lightning, seeping into her heart and swallowing her from inside out.

They walk towards the bed, feet moving swiftly like a coordinated dance - neither really thinks about it, but they move; to kiss each other, extend the moment however long it will last. And in bed, there's gravity where they lay; limbs become heavier, bodies pressed in places they'd never been before, Nesta thinks she might die. First, they sit: she is almost on her knees, her breasts flushed so tight against his chest that she can feel the seams of his jacket through her clothes. But they're kissing dangerously slow, searching, learning, taking their time to please each other; hands travelling over chests, shoulders, waists, necks, thighs; breasts.

Cassian takes a hand into a brave investigation under Nesta's unbuttoned coat, gently finding home in one of her breasts. The little friction over her nipple, however small, makes her insides twitch and if Cassian had been waiting for a complaint, he doesn't get one. Nesta presses further into his hand, looking for more, and the bastard couldn't be happier with it.

It's hot.

Nevermind that winter solstice was the coldest night of the year, Nesta felt unbearably feverish inside her clothes and Cassian was already starting to sweat under his leathers, the hair on his nape becoming damp in between her fingers as she held and kissed him.

"Take it off." She breathes out, cheeks flushed red, hands placed on the leathers over his shoulders.

She wants to touch him, but in honesty, the suggestion was made purely because Nesta had been concerned with his comfort. It was too hot; Cassian was sweating against her, and she was quite close to doing just the same. And the suggestion, innocent as it is, makes Cassian blink into reality.

He sizes her down in the bed, breathless and flushed, lips swollen red and loving hands firmly pressed on his shoulders and waist. Nesta, this feral female, might not be fully aware of what type of danger she's playing with and Cassian isn't the type of bastard who likes to take advantage of people. Most definitely not her.

"Are you sure you want this? We don't have to do anything; not unless you want it." He breathes out, moving his hand from her breast and back to her waist.

Because if they do, Cassian is certain that there will be no turning back from this.

She stares, fiddling with what to say, because  _ of course _ she wants him and yes, she wants him now. What in the world would they even wait for? Marriage? Nesta had a feeling that premarital celibacy wasn't something the fae really worried about, besides, she couldn't care less about it even if it was the case. She's not a respectable lady to be wed; Nesta is an orphaned human turned fae, with no money or bloodline; her name has no meaning. Nesta is her own person, there's nothing besides herself to dictate how the future goes.

She loves Cassian, she wants sex; she wants sex with him.  _ Now. _

"Scared?" She arches one perfect eyebrow up, dragging the hand over his shoulder down his chest, his stomach, letting it sit dangerously close to his crotch. And he is - she notices - hard. His pants are impossibly tight in a way they hadn't been before. Nesta can see how the dark fabric outlines him, how thick he is and -

Nesta snaps her head up, wide eyed as she stares into his equally nervous face. Cassian - Cassian looks like it wouldn't take much to kill him. 

"I mean it. It's ok, we don't have to." Cassian nods firmly, face filled with reassuring seriousness, dragging his thumb where his hand rested on her waist. And because he is an insufferable shameless thing, his eyes soon sparkle devilishly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Besides, there's a long list of  _ other _ things we can do."

_ "Oh." _

_ "Yes." _ He nods again, playfully this time, leans in for another kiss; which she doesn't refuse. "Only if you want to."

Some part of her, impatient and stubborn, wants him to stop repeating himself as if she's some breakable doll. Still, Nesta finds it much easier to appreciate his concern. Maybe the fae have good patience from living for so long; maybe Cassian isn't about sex as hardly as he makes it out to be. She trusts him with everything; the illyrian would never force her into anything that could've been remotely hurtful or disrespectful. He's simply not like that. And in the safety that comes with trusting him, Nesta feels confident.

"I'm starting to think you  _ are _ scared." Smiling, Nesta leans forward again and kisses his chin, shadowy jaw, his neck. She feels the blood running through his veins under her lips, feels his heart hammering inside his chest and against hers. She knows her words and chooses to look into his eyes before pronouncing them. "I want you, Cassian.  _ Now." _

_ "Oh." _

_ "Oh." _

Not even if she tried, would Nesta be able to understand how much those words meant or what kind of impact they really had on him.

How much it meant to be wanted by the one person he wanted more than anything else. Nesta, who takes over him like a stubborn malediction and refuses to leave every place occupied inside his soul; where they're now braided together, woven like thick yarn and gold thread. Nesta - whatever that creature had been made off, whatever cosmic accident led to her existence - had unknowingly claimed him the second they locked eyes. He could never want anything else, nothing more: that grey eyed goddess called to him like a prophecy in telling, she was the beginning and the end, she took over him and shifted his future entirely.

Nesta Archeron, he wanted her. Needed, loved, felt her. Cassian knew that she was the female he wanted by his side until the end of times, could no longer picture a future in which she was not a part of. And  _ I want you, _ fucking hell! It breaks him, sets his body aflame, brings him closer to the furious animal hidden under his skin.

Cassian is a wreck because it wasn't about sex at all -  _ I want you _ is a promise that seems to stretch into eternity,  _ I want you _ is all that he had ever wanted and needed to hear in his entire life.

_ Fuck it. _ He'll do it, even if it's a misinterpretation.

"I'm yours." His words seem to be carried through the entire court, and Nesta is too far gone to say a thing back. "Are you going to be mine?"

"I am." Comes out of her mouth before she can even give it some seconds of consideration; which doesn't matter, because Cassian already had that answer engraved on his heart.  _ "I am." _

_ "I know." _

"Yours."

"I know. Mine. I'm yours." Cassian nods against her forehead, staring into her eyes from so up close he can hardly see anything. And he means to say more; he wants to, but it's so hard because then they are kissing again and every word leaves his mind entirely.

He's still mindful of her, though, and is determined to take things slow - Nesta won't see a first time as wild as the roaring male on his subconscious wants to make it. Cassian wants to explore her body, to please her, to be touched; in the great scheme of things, penetration is hardly even a point on his mind. There are just  _ so _ many things they can do; so he calls back to her earlier command and takes his leathers off; his cotton shirt, his belt. And Nesta shrugs off her coat, bringing her skirts all the way up to her thighs, before leaning into him again, much closer without so many layers - and as they kiss, Nesta lets her hand feel the skin on his stomach, his hard chest, the large muscled arms; and she couldn't believe he was real at all.

And his touch; Cassian didn't refrain from letting his hand go wherever he wanted, he had no shame. It was good; so good, because Nesta loved it and she wouldn't know how to ask for more if he didn't. Though sometimes it became clearer: like when his hand came so high on her thigh and she almost squirmed, some parts of her body so hot she could hardly sit up; Nesta almost pleaded for him to touch her. She'd say it: she would ask him to touch her in between her legs like  _ that, _ completely shameless, but Cassian beat her to it.

With a touch so gentle she almost ground into it, Cassian caressed her center over her underwear - and hummed with satisfaction when he found her wet.

_ "Yes." _ Nesta breathes out, letting her head fall back with eyes closed and a parted mouth - Cassian shivers with the sight. His touch was so light; he knows she's hardly getting any friction, and it reminds him of how young she is. How inexperienced.

He still remembers what Nesta had told him when she was still human, about how she satisfied herself with her hand. Her small hand, with delicate fingers so soft and thin; what kind of touching did she like? Had she made herself climax before? Due to the shame forced wherever a female's sexuality was concerned, he knew not all females knew how to touch themselves; some clueless males fucked through so many and still didn't know either.

"Do you like it like this?" He whispers against her neck, adding just a little more pressure, keeping his fingers close to where he knows her clit should be.

Nesta's answer is another breathless sound, deep, and Cassian doesn't miss the way her fingers twitch on the mattress. And as inevitable as the sun rising every morning, he buries his face on her neck, inhaling that scent that is hers - and somehow, belongs to him. He kisses; bites her, like his animalistic self urges to do, and his eyes almost roll back with the sound she makes under his bite.

She's too hot inside that sleeved dress, the pitiful grey thing, and even though it's painful to break apart from him, Nesta pushes back to take it off. Cassian helps, tugging it up and through her shoulders until they can throw it to the ground; and he barely gets to touch her delicate top until she's taking it off as well. Her breasts feel impossibly soft when his hands come to cup them and the two of them can't help but think about how perfectly they fit on her.

The button to his pants - Cassian makes a disgruntled noise of annoyance when Nesta's fingers come for it, but he doesn't stop her from popping it open, helping him take it off. And just like that, they're both on their undergarments only, laced in each other like passion fruit vines. Nesta had never done this before;  _ not like this, _ at least, and it's almost shocking to her how natural it feels. How easy and comfortable; how simple it is to get lost in Cassian's body and let him get lost in hers back. How good it feels, how there's no shame or danger to feed off.

Cassian's fingers find their way back to her, but under the fabric this time. The bare digits straight against her flesh have an immediate answer, Nesta feels as if she had been painted red by his touch. And she reaches for him, as they're so close, the female feels him over his pants with a tentative touch. The illyrian is so hard, _ she wants to cry for him _ \- no, that might have something to do with the holy way he's touching her in between her legs. But still. Nesta wants to please him; to feel him. And the way his breath catches when she palms him through his shorts, hands wavering as his touching progresses -

It feels  _ so, _ so good.

And when Nesta does slip her hand inside, fingers wrapping around his length - it's the way Cassian's eyes roll back, that sends a tremor through her body. Her thighs shake with his touch; it's so hard to keep a steady rhythm on him, because she's entirely gone, coming to pieces against his hand. Much earlier than what she had predicted - Nesta had barely felt that elastic band expand - there's that sweet ache coming alight, Cassian gets hold of her entire body with a touch from his hands.

Nesta can't help but lie back, body too heavy as her legs spasmed - and Cassian was over her, his lips over hers, his fingers moving lower, inside her - and she can't reach down for him, but Nesta had learned enough about illyrian anatomy in the library to know that there was something better on his back.  _ Fucking wings. _

Her hand goes over his shoulders, landing on the hard patagium; the thicker structure outlining the top of his wings. She knows they're not the most sensitive part, but Cassian gasps with her light strokes, fingers digging into the mattress by her head. And when she moves even lower, feeling the sensitive leathery membrane and the hard tendons with a gentle touch, the illyrian moans on her ear like he's about to come undone. A needy, filthy sound that seems to be dragged out of his chest and thorough his throat, it reaches her ears and goes straight to her center, where his damned fingers move in and out.

It kills her like a blow, her legs shifting again, Cassian's touch awakening something she didn't even know existed inside of her. Nesta had never felt pleasure from that; in fact, being touched on the inside usually only made her wetness dry. And she had tried a handful of times, at that, wanting to gain control of herself after what had happened, but Nesta had never felt anything from touching herself that way.

Perhaps it had something to do with comfort and timing; maybe her fae body was simply more sensitive. She had no idea. She didn't know her body enough - as it was, it was possible that this male knew more about her body than her.

_ "Nesta."  _ Cassian had never been so breathless before, his fingers twitching inside of her, Nesta wants to scream. "Don't play."

"You like it." There's a challenging smirk on her lips, and  _ she's a devil, _ Cassian thinks, sinking his teeth on her neck again. He groans, hips bucking into hers from the torturous way she touches his wings only,  _ she's the devil. _ "You like it."

Of course he does.

Being a lowborn bastard, Cassian hadn't had a single thing growing up. His only great possessions were his wings, and he had to fight to keep those intact. The other illyrians, some grown and other boys his age, were jealous of him and there were no rules inside the rinks - nothing other than  _ put your opponent down. _ Those were dangerous places to throw raging jealous males inside; Cassian had grown careful of his wings, he wasn't the type to let himself be touched like that.

He isn't really used to it, though it feels so good under her hands, and he doesn't want to risk finding out what happens if his control snaps; if his male instincts come kicking in while Nesta is under him with her hand in his wings.

_ Maybe another day. _

But Cassian - as hard as it is to give up the sweet ache of her touch to his wings - takes his hand from where it digs into the mattress to hold hers down.

"No playing." He mumbles, curling his fingers inside of her in a way that makes her vision go white, blind despite the wide eyes; it makes something hot shoot up to his chest.

_ "You're playing."  _

"I can play." He's the one smirking this time, savoring her blissful face and the warm feeling of her around his fingers. "I get to play all I want," ragged voice as he feels her pulse on his lips, her jaw, her delicately pointed ear; and Cassian curls his fingers again, feeling her body vibrate under him, "you like it."

She can't counterattack, her retort is stuck in her throat along with a cry, pressing her head back into the mattress with her lower body so tense - Nesta isn't entirely sure of what might happen to her, but she knows what she wants.

"Inside." She breathes out, tightening her grip on his hand. "Cassian."

"Relax, sweetheart,"

_ "Cassian." _ She's not going to say  _ please, _ but from the knowing look on his eyes, it's almost as if she had.

Nesta rises her hips to slide her underwear down; and Cassian helps, taking the soaked fabric through her legs and setting it do the side. His hands go to each of her thighs, spreading her open for him, and Nesta shivers with the hunger displayed on his face. She can't remember feeling so desired before; or how good it felt. And Cassian, with that dark look, Nesta wants to be his; to be  _ made _ his.

It's new. And new things are usually terrifying, but she welcomes the new feeling with an open chest.

Cassian bows before her, inhaling deep and slow, there's a growl rumbling on his chest and Nesta knows he's like a predator before feast.

_ "Cassian." _ It's almost a warning, but then his warm mouth is on her and her entire body jolts, legs kicking under his hands. But he presses down, letting his tongue explore her flesh, kissing, sucking gently despite the possessive instincts that plead to take, take, take. And when she says it again,  _ "Cassian", _ it's a prayer that makes him see white.

It feels good; new and incredibly good, Nesta hadn't imagined that she could feel like this before - the bastard had meant his words when he said there was more they could do. With his mouth on her most sensitive part, Nesta feels as if she's being licked by fire, impossibly hot and sweet in a way that drives her insane - but she's done playing. She's too sensitive already and there's just so much she can take.

Curling her fingers on his dark hair, Nesta makes to pull him back - not before savoring one last second of his sinful mouth - and then he's over her again, his still clothed hardness pressing against her. Nesta is going to die, this is the end, she'll die -

But then her heart still beats and she helps him out of his shorts, letting an eager hand curl around him; gently stroking him over her entrance - he'll die, Cassian has never been so close to death; to drop dead without reason.

"This might not work." It's an honest warning, he breathes out while caressing her hips, letting her work on his cock with that painfully slow touch. "For a first time."

"Oh, it will." Nesta breathes out, tightening her grip a little to try and foresee how he'll feel like inside her. And granted,  _ he's big. _ Nesta isn't too sure of how that's supposed to fit at all, but she's a stubborn female with a goal in mind. And how hard it is to change her wishes once she's decided on them.  _ "Come inside me." _

It curses through his body with a shiver,  _ "Yeah?" _ Cassian can't help the moan, with how poorly she chose her words; the damned touch, her strokes getting harder and harder - the illyrian really  _ is _ about to die.

It takes a little patience, Cassian knows, and he moves her hand away to push himself in; slow, as painful as it has to be for the two of them. He brushes himself against her first, letting her feel comfortable with him; her breathlessness is a good sign. He pushes in, then, and the beginning is almost easy; though incredibly tight. Cassian is long, and while Nesta could manage some part of him with certain ease, the stretch gets harder after a while - and she doesn't succeed with hiding her discomfort. 

He stops altogether, not moving an inch inside her. Nesta feels impossibly wet, but tight enough that it would be a painful stretch for her; and this is where they need to take things slow, until she either decides to stop or take him whole.

"Tell me if you want me to stop." Cassian assures her, lowering his thumb on her clit to start on a ravishing caress. "And if it hurts."

She nods against the mattress, reaching up to grab a pillow - and she focuses on the tantalizing circles he makes, eliciting a quickly building heat on her lower body, that agony in which she can't stand still. In no time, she's urging him to move, and Cassian takes more inches of her, easier this time, until he's trust all the way in and Nesta feels herself spasm around him.

Those damned fingers that feel so good and yet, simply not enough. Cassian is so provocative: he doesn't give her all she needs, just enough to go insane, hips starting to shift - and he knows exactly what he's doing to her, that bastard.

_ "Move." _

"Are you sure?"

Her nails dig into his hips, bringing him impossibly closer,  _ move. _

The first trusts are tentative; Nesta had never felt so full and it's definitely strange, but the discomfort is gone. All she can feel is his torturous touching and with a look to his face, how blissful he is, it makes the experience much more worth it. It takes a feel tries - while Cassian looks like he's seconds away from going down with a stroke - they try a few angles until he hits a spot that sends her center alight, a loud moan crawling out of her throat before she can stop herself. And Cassian sets his pace, bracing a hand by her head to support his weight, moving the other hand away from her clit to hold one of her knees down, widening her legs to fit his hips even tighter -

And when it goes, Nesta realizes most of the pleasure she felt was hardly even coming from his hand anymore; it was the damned friction every time he moved inside, a good stretch while hitting all of the right places; how he pressed against her without the fingers moving on the way; and she can hardly breathe with the trusts - it's a slow crescent, growing intense with every second.

_ She feels him. _ In between her legs, over her torso, her arms; as she touches his shoulders, his waist, his wings; faces buried on each others necks, their lips; but that's not all. Nesta can feel Cassian as if he's woven to her, as if they're one. A feeling so new and strange, she's certain it's not common at all. A connection - like a, what was it the word they used? The fucking… A fucking…

_ A bond? _ A bond! 

Every time they moved, like a dance, Nesta felt as if she and Cassian were bonded, in one; she could feel him inside her body, her heart, mind. A soul, if they did have one.

And the sounds he makes, that damned bastard, his moans, his grunting; she answered him with sounds of her own, like singing an obscene song that should go unheard by the rest of the world - and every sound makes her hairs rise, her lower body aching with all the tension built by his torturous onslaught.

She needs to move - she needs to move or else.

With a hold much stronger than what either of them could have predicted, Nesta manages to push the illyrian on his back. There's a protest coming her way: Cassian does  _ not _ like lying over his wings. He's too heavy to put that much weight over the sensitive structure, but he's silenced when she comes on top of him, sinking herself on his cock.  _ Quiet, _ or as quiet as he can be.

His moans, sweet, filthy, delicious, the pained groans, the breathless whispers she could barely decipher - it's a different type of pleasure altogether.

Riding is harder than what she had predicted and she hesitates to brace her weight on his chest, not wanting to press his wings down. But Cassian's hands come to her hips, steadying her movements as she moves back and forth, grinding herself on him -  _ the bastard deserves what he gets, _ and she ends up using his chest for support anyway.

Every time she moves it's like the world becomes tighter, reduced to a thick elastic band holding the two of them together - she's ready to come again,  _ so ready. _ Nesta tries to hold herself in, thighs strained as she moves on top of him, her good rhythm becoming an unruly mess until Cassian has to sit up - despite his own desperation, as he falls to pieces along with her, he curls an arm around her waist to help her ride. He catches her lips with a passionate kiss that make his chest burn and it's a good telling sign that he's coming as well. Cassian is gone, so gone for her.

Nesta's hips lock down when they come and Cassian moves her with his hands to help them ride it out - she shakes on his arms, unbearably sensitive in a way she'd never been before, and Cassian bites down his stupid male pride for making her come with him.

She almost falls back when it's over, Cassian's cock pulsating inside of her, releasing his come deep inside - it's a mess and she's too exhausted to even think about it. Nesta knew that human females drank cinnamon tea to prevent pregnancies, but the fae…  _ No, _ she doesn't even bother to think about it.

_ "Nesta." _

She hadn't fallen at all. Cassian held her against his chest, her face helplessly pressed against his sweaty neck as she struggled to breathe. Around him, still. And speechless. She hums to let him know she's awake, but that's about all she can do. The illyrian says nothing more, equally pained, and he moves to lay her down on the mattress with impossible gentleness.

Cassian says nothing more when he lies by her side, curling around her body and bringing a wing over her - an illyrian's primal instinct to guard and protect, and he knows that he's truly and entirely fucked.

.

Their morning isn't much different from the night; Nesta wakes up with a fever as if she'll die unless Cassian is inside her again. They spend every second of that morning in the bed, savoring each other like they hadn't done during all of those months back, denying themselves to think about what will happen when it's over.

Cassian is meant to leave for the steppes in a few days, and then there will be no telling of how long it will take before he comes back -  _ if _ he does. Illyria is a wreck, after all, they can't predict how anything will go. And what is Nesta supposed to do with her male all alone across the damned continent, amidst imminent danger after barely making it out of the last war? Is she just supposed to sit back in Velaris while Cassian handles a fucking rebellion amongst the war camps? Sending him letters about what new books she had found while he might as well be dead and discarded in the mud like filth?

She blocks those from her mind during the morning; and then a good portion of the afternoon, until they decide it's time to fly back to the townhouse.

Nesta still has clothes in her bedroom on the House of Wind, but they had an awkward fit on her body after all the changes she had suffered - though she's most definitely looking better now, filling out and gaining color. Cassian has clothes there as well and they  _ do _ bathe (together), but it doesn't help their case much. No matter how much they try, Nesta can't rub his heavy scent off her body and Cassian, hers. It's almost mixed, in a way, and it takes them a while to understand that the scent clinging to their bodies was no longer sex.

Neither of them says a thing about it, though they do share a heavy look that implies it didn't escape their perception.

They land inside the property quietly - she's painfully nervous for whatever awaits. There is no way the others can't tell what had just happened in between the two of them and Nesta is simply not in the right mood to deal with judgement and shame. Or her own insecurities, for that matter. Cassian catches her hand, though, some assurance that they're  _ in _ together, and Nesta squares her shoulders before walking inside.

It seems there's an avalanche of issues falling on top of each other and she discovers more every single time one of them is fixed.

Feyre was walking towards somewhere, perhaps the kitchen, when she took them in. Utterly confused: being out herself, she hadn't realized her sister had slept outside. With Cassian, no less - and she didn't even have to take a good sniff to catch their heavy scent. Rhysand, the bastard, smirked like he knew; had likely been informed by Azriel or Morrigan, the ones who saw them leave, and awkwardly looked down as if to disguise their collective blame. Elain,  _ poor thing, _ understood nothing besides the different scent clinging to the room.

_ Busybodies. _

"Sleep well, sister?" Rhysand purs like a cat, movements feline as he lazily stretched over the couch - probably had fucked through his solstice as hard as Cassian and Nesta had done. And her walls were down, she notices, because her in-law cackles after she lets go of that thought; Feyre pale as rice. "Won't you…"

He has something awful to say, she knows, because it's telling in his devious eyes and also on the way Cassian's shoulders tense. Nesta doesn't know much about the fae, even though she's now one, but she had learned a little bit from the books she had swallowed through the month. In illyrian anatomy, she had learned that illyrian males were even more possessive than high fae, even though she didn't even know that high fae males were possessive at all on the first place.

Her only examples were the half-breed High Lord, who acted like her sister's servant; and Lucien, who seemed to be terrified to even look in Elain's direction for too long.

It came as a surprise and she didn't really take it seriously - until she saw Cassian riled up for no reason at all, bristling from a possible provocation that hadn't even been voiced yet; his arm crossed over her stomach, keeping her back.

"You keep your mouth shut or he'll be the last of your problems."

Nesta is  _ not _ good at de-escalating conflict.

At this point, they should have known -  _ hell,  _ Nesta feels like jumping in Rhysand's too thin neck herself. But he shows his palms in mock surrender, Morrigan soon dragging Cassian into a subject she knows nothing off - which she's not remotely happy about, damn these instincts. And it seems… She feels just as confused as she had been perhaps a month ago. A lot had changed on the meantime and still, what exactly had changed? She and Cassian had traded every word, had done everything, had given their bodies to each other with abandon; and still, not a lot made sense.

She knows her body is burning, she knows it pisses her off to have another female whisking his attention away, she knows they're both completely ruined to the rest of the world. Nesta can't help but belong to him wholly and at the same time, the illyrian warrior wears a dog tag with her name written all over it. It's unbelievably intense in every meaning of the word and yet, there's not a lot of information for her to use as factual standard. What are they? Surely a couple, but what is she supposed to call him? A date?

Sounds fucking ridiculous, doesn't it?

Her mind is a mist, a familiar storm raging through memories and thought, and Nesta needs to clear it out. She needs to breathe, to let her expressions falter without the heavy looks from everyone else - and it's not cowardly hiding, she just needs a second to ride the devastation out. Which might take a little while.

And is this how it will always be? Restlessly battling to gain control of herself every single day until the end?

_ Well.  _ It's not like she can do much if it is indeed the case.

Cassian sits in a chair - not glued to  _ anyone else, _ she approvingly notes while giving him an assuring nod.  _ Everything is alright. _ And his smile as he lazily leans back,  _ I know and I'm waiting for you. _ Is all she needs to smile back, lips pulled over her teeth, before turning away. Nesta waves them off to change into clothes that actually fit, pretending not to notice the poorly disguised looks they get from everyone.

They'll be alright.

And on her bedroom, bed untouched and perfectly made, Nesta finds Rhysand's solstice gift for her, which she had refused to open from spite. And fuck, if she shouldn't keep the joke running; but curiosity gets the best of her. Nesta goes for the black box, both large and light, made of thick paper. She pulls the top off, letting it slide to the bed and eyeing her gift inside.

A black bag.

She takes it from the box, shaking the resistant dark fabric until it straightens to what it's supposed to be; Nesta stares into it with a hazy mind until it makes sense.

Not a bag: a  _ travel _ bag.

For someone whose male is moving across the continent. Someone who feels miserable inside the house and ecstatic whenever she leaves into the world; someone who wants and  _ needs _ to go.

"Son of a bitch." Nesta whispers to herself with her mouth hanging open; strange feelings piling over the other, she barely has a mean to figure them out.

There are things - so many things that come crashing on her mind. It's a storm at high sea, it's destruction and creation, it's the end of the world crashing down where the world doesn't exist at all. It's grey fog in a green forest, it's tragedy coming to an end in the dark; light seeping through the lines as thunder cracks the sky open like thin glass.

Caught in the eye of a vicious storm, Nesta begins to realize it should be harmless, given she's a female of rain, wind, nebula and thunder.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now. Let me know if you have any thoughts or observations!


End file.
